


cosmetic [rewriting]

by regionals



Series: cosmetic verse [1]
Category: Fall Out Boy, Panic! at the Disco, Twenty One Pilots
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-20
Updated: 2017-01-20
Packaged: 2018-09-18 17:54:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 29
Words: 85,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9396488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/regionals/pseuds/regionals
Summary: Brendon meets Dallon while he's working at Starbucks and things snowball from there.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> currently rewriting lol i've gotten a lot better since i finished this and ive been dissatisfied with it for the longest time yikes.
> 
> if you notice any changes in the plot, timeline, or general quality of the writing or the format as you go from one chapter from another, then you've most likely found where i'm at with rewriting.
> 
> i started this fic a year ago, finished it in august 2016, and a year after starting it i'm rewriting it.

**_July, 2012. New York City._ **

You got this job at Starbucks sometime in January, and it is, honestly, just about as shitty as it sounds, but you're a broke college student who needs to pay for your tuition, plus your rent, so you've grown surprisingly patient when it comes to this job.

You also work with one of your best friends, so that helps a lot, honestly. He's kind of a little shit, but you owe him a lot, since he took you in when you had nowhere else to go, and, like you said--he's one of your best friends, and for a reason too.

You guess that, in hindsight, this all sounds like a horribly written fan fiction by a seventeen year old who is about to turn eighteen who, also, has nothing better to do with his time, but life kind of works that way sometimes, you know?

At this point, in July of 2012, you've been working at this Starbucks for six months. (Just in case anyone else couldn't do the math between January and July.) You've been working here for six months when the definition of beauty and perfection walks in. If you didn't know any better, you'd say that he was a _god._ He's tall, handsome, clean cut, wearing a suit that looks like it's worth more than what you take home in a year, and he's kind of everything you've ever dreamed of. Literally.

He's just so goddamn _dreamy_ and you almost drop your Sharpie and the cup you're holding when he tells you his order. His eyes are beautiful, his cheekbones are so _strong,_ and he has a cute, goofy looking smile that comes across his face when he, y'know, gives you his order.

He looks oh-so adorably confused when you ask him for his name, and realization only dawns on him when you're pointing at the cup with your Sharpie. "I'm so sorry, man. I'm tired. It's Dallon." He spells his name out just to make sure you spell it right and you do your job, smiling courteously.

Along with his name, you write down your phone number onto the cup, and you shoot Pete a dirty look when he catches sight of the cup on his way to the other register, and you sigh a little bit when he knocks into you with his hip as he's walking past.

\---

Walking into your apartment that afternoon is both a relief, and a disappointment. You're relieved because, hey, you're off your feet and you can finally relax after a long day, but you're disappointed because it's, honestly, kind of a shit hole. It's all you can afford without putting yourself in debt, though, and it's just--it's your home, alright? (Plus, the air conditioning is pretty decent. Decent enough that you're able to excuse the poor insulation and the water heater that only works half of the time.)

You toss your keys onto your coffee table as you pass by the living room, and you're peeling your clothes off while you make your way down the hall and towards the bathroom. You'll pick them up later, but right now, you don't give a shit, because it's pushing a hundred outside, and you really need to shower. You smell like armpit. It's disgusting.

This happens to be the one time you're glad that the water heater isn't working, because, to reiterate, it's hot. Very hot. You needed the cool down, even if it meant not actually getting that clean. You have deodorant and alright body wash, though, so you'll make it work, just like you do with everything else in your life. (You're barely twenty and you've lived on your own for a year now. You know some shit.) (That's not entirely true, but you're been faring alright for yourself.)

You settle down onto your couch after you've put on a tank top and a pair of basketball shorts, and after you've gone through the apartment to pick up your clothes to toss into the hamper for you to carry to a laundromat sometime next week. You check your phone--part of your nightly ritual, and you see that you have one unread notification.

You're expecting it to either be spam, something misleading, or maybe even just a wrong number, mostly since only two people interact with you, one of which being Pete, and the other being Patrick if he's desperate to get a hold of Pete.

It's none of those, though.

 

 **(xxx) xxx-xxxx:** Hey, is this the guy who wrote his phone number on my coffee this morning?

 **Brendon:** maybe

 **Dallon:** You're a little presumptuous.

 **Brendon:** hey, when i see an opportunity to hit on a cute guy, i need to take it, y'know?

 **Dallon:** I'd like to think of myself more as rugged and handsome rather than cute.

 **Brendon:** i'll give you handsome, but you're not rugged. full offense.

 **Dallon:** Get ready to catch these fists. I'm going to fight you on that.

 

You smile down at your phone at that last text message. He seems nice and funny. If you mix that with tall and handsome, it's a concoction that spells doom for you. You don't really give a shit, though, so you respond.

 

 **Brendon:** i'm ready to take you on. don't start fights you can't win. >:(

 **Dallon:** Psh! You're like two feet tall! I could totally take you in a fight!

 

You roll your eyes and scoff softly. If you had to estimate, you're probably only nine inches shorter than him, at the most.

 

 **Brendon:** consider this: you're skinny and i'm sort of muscular (not really) i could snap u in half like a twig

 **Dallon:** You have a valid point, sir. Sorry if I'm being presumptuous now, but do you want to go out for a drink, or hang out sometime?

 

You puff your cheeks out a bit as you et out a breath. You would be delighted to go out for a drink, you really would, but you're not going to be twenty-one for another nine months, and you misplaced your fake ID. You saw how this guy, Dallon, looked. He's obviously older than you, and if you had to guess, you'd say that he was in his mid to late twenties, possibly his early thirties, _but,_ if he's in his early thirties, then he looks _damn_ good.

Though... Maybe you wouldn't get carded. You don't _have_ to be twenty one to get into a bar, right? You just have to be twenty one to _drink._

You spend ten minutes typing and retyping messages before settling on the eloquent response of, _'i'd be down for either!'_

You fidget for the ten minutes it takes him to reply, but, basically, the plan is that, this weekend, he's going to pick you up at your apartment, and then the two of you are going to go to a bar-slash-diner. He doesn't establish that it's a date, but it sounds like one to you.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fun fact: in the 2nd draft of cosmetic (there's four in total) urie wasn't cis [eyes emoji]  
> it was a goode concept but im saving it for anothre fic lol

The rest of your week goes by normally, if you're honest. You go to work, you come home, exhausted, you take a cold shower, then you try not to have a heatstroke while you banter with Pete and subtly flirt with Dallon over SMS.

On Saturday, Dallon picks you up at your apartment complex, and you try not to be too obviously starstruck on the way to the bar-slash-diner, since he's driving a _Cadillac._ It's not an outdated model, either. It's _new._ Not brand new, obviously, since you can see cigarette ashes (not a lot) and a few poorly wiped up stains from spilled coffee on the console, but it's still _nice._

The place he takes you to is in the Upper West Side, and it's... it's fancy. Fancier than you would've thought he'd be willing to treat you to, and you feel just a little out of place since you're wearing a flannel, skinny jeans, _Vans,_ and a beanie, since your hair is, literally, a bird's nest. Like, if a bird wanted, it could just take up residence in your hair, and no one would know the difference.

You don't express feeling out of place, mostly since the place isn't _strictly_ formal. It ends up not even mattering, honestly, because you have a great time.

You're nervous, really nervous, and you ramble a little bit here and there, but Dallon just listens intently as if you're the most interesting person in the world. He drops a few sly comments here and there that make you laugh and drop your gaze down into your plate as to avoid going red in the face since he's sort of beautiful.

You find out a little bit about him as well. He's a twenty seven year old stockbroker with a decent music taste and an even better sense of fashion, not to mention that he's traveled and that he's about as cultured as a cup of yogurt. That's not even mentioning that he's charming as hell, and, alright, yeah--you really hope he's not leading you on, because he is _so_ the kind of guy that literally anyone could fall for.

\---

The not established date goes swimmingly. You don't mention that you're not twenty one yet, mostly since you got just a little tipsy, as did he. He's nice enough to call you a cab and to ride with you to your apartment just to make sure you got home safe before he goes home to his own house.

He also walks you up to your apartment, and he's a little awkward in his execution, but it's sweet enough that you're pretty sure you're going to have to file for a loan because he makes your teeth rot. You're going to need to go to a dentist after being around him tonight. God.

Before he says his goodbye, for the night, at least, he bends down and kisses you. It's gentle and it's good enough that, after he pulls away, you're pulling him back for more. He hesitates just a little bit, but he reciprocates, and you're only pulling away for good when you hear the cab driver honking. Either of you giggle, and he gives you a quick side hug before telling you to have a good night.

You're going to backtrack to the 'bad fan fiction written by a seventeen year old' comment, because that kiss was one of your favorites. Not the best one you've ever had, but it's one of your favorites for sure, and that's saying a lot, since you've kissed a _lot_ of people. (You like to go to clubs and bars sometimes to hook up with people. So what?)

It's probably the age thing, and it's probably because you're a little drunk, but he's, like, so good at kissing. If it weren't for the fact that he had to go home, you probably would've stood there kissing him for an eternity.

Once you're in the safety of your own apartment, with the door locked and the deadbolt latched, you plop down onto your couch, and pull your phone out to text Pete and to tell him about your night.

 

 **Brendon:** peeeeeeeeeeterrrrrrrrrrrr

 **Pete:** yes brendon can i help you

 **Brendon:** okayy you know the cutrse guy ive been takign abtou??????

 **Pete:** you're drunk arent you

 **Brendon:** just a lil bit

 **Pete:** nice. anyways, yes, i know about the guy. you NEVER shut up about him.

 **Brendon:** shhh fuck off

 **Brendon:** i kisesd him

 **Pete:** wow. im so impressed. how wild.

 **Brendon:** do i need togdig up the frukcing MSN conversatino from 20087 when you and patrikc got togehters because u did not SHUT THE FUSCK U P for like a MOOOONTHHGTHHHH

 **Pete:** okay, for one thing, shut up, and for another thing, go drink some water, eat something if you can, then go to bed. we can gossip tomorrow.

 

As you're falling asleep, you think about the way his lips felt against your own, and how his cheeks were flushed red when he was standing up straight again, and how a cute, goofy little grin broke out onto his face before he was giving you a quick hug, saying goodnight, and leaving.

You think about how your heart was beating so, _so_ fast, the fond little look on his face, the way your hands were twitching from the urge to grab the lapels of his blazer and to pull him back down into a kiss and, alright, this shit is gay as hell. It's possibly the gayest thing you've ever thought about someone.

\---

You nurse a hangover on Sunday, then Monday morning goes about the same as it usually does. You get there, and you set up shop with Pete, before dealing with the crowd of hungover and grumpy customers, while you, yourself, are hungover, since you were sort of drinking with Pete last night while you were telling him all of the details about the date on Saturday.

Dallon drops in around noon, during his lunch break, and, conveniently, just before your own lunch break. He awkwardly sits across from you at a table near the window, and you just look at him curiously as you're unwrapping a sandwich.

He fidgets for a while, before just saying, "I'm sorry for kissing you on Saturday."

You can't help but to laugh. He gives you this incredulous and sort of mortified look, but you try your best to reassure him by saying, "Don't apologize! You're pretty freaking great at kissing, man. _Though..._ Maybe you should invest in some chapstick."

"No, Brendon, it was undignified and out of nowhere. We were both drunk--"

You roll your eyes. "I'm an adult, and you're an adult. We can make our own decisions. Anyways, you treated me to a fabulous dinner and let me order expensive drinks, so, honestly...? I probably would've kissed you my damn self if you hadn't have beat me to it.

He opens and closes his mouth a few times like a goldfish, before he's just settling on the eloquent response of, _"Oh."_

You ask him about his day after that, finally taking the first bite out of your sandwich. He tells you that his morning was alright, then explains something funny that'd happened. He's more shy and quiet than he was on Saturday, but you take into account that he was a little drunk, and that Pete wasn't staring at either of you from across the room like a hawk.

When he asks you about your day, and when you tell him, he actually listens, seeming like he gives a shit. It's not too far of a reach to say that he _does_ give a shit, but, still. You've met a lot of assholes, alright?

You tell him about the nightmares of Mondays and hungover college students, and he offers his condolences after hearing about some horror stories you'd experienced and the assholes that you dea with throughout the day.

"Hey, this was a really nice lunch, but, unfortunately, I have to get back to work. My apartment isn't much, but would you like to hang out this weekend or something? I have Netflix and a decent couch, plus decent air conditioning."

Dallon looks a little surprised, but he's still saying, "Yeah, sure! I'll text you later," nonetheless. He opens his wallet and pulls out a few bills, folding them up before you have the chance to see the numbers on them, then he's walking out before you have the chance to find out how much he'd left you.

You almost choke on your spit when you see that he'd left two fifty dollar bills, and you stick both of them into your wallet once you're behind the counter again, with full intentions of giving the money back to him. It has to be a mistake. A twenty dollar tip, sure, that you could accept, but one hundred dollars? That's a lot. _No one_ tips that much. Literally no one.

\---

You're on your phone and typing furiously once you're in your apartment that evening.

 

 **Brendon:** you do realize you gave me $100 right

 **Dallon:** I'm well aware.

 **Brendon:** why?

 **Dallon:** You're a courteous barista.

 **Brendon:** is this your way of hitting on me

 **Dallon:** Not at all

 **Dallon:** Buy yourself something, or save it. It's up to you. Don't worry about it!

 

 _Huh..._ The tip ends up going towards a bill and some groceries.


	3. Chapter 3

Dallon shows up around eleven in the morning when Saturday rolls around again. He has Chinese takeout with him, and you almost drop to your knees to suck him off right then and there, because you haven't been able to afford Chinese takeout in _months._

"Oh, Dallon, you are a _godsend._ Do you _know_ how hungry I am?" You take the bag from him, and you step aside to allow him into your apartment, telling him to close the door behind him as you're setting the bag with the takeout cartons inside of it on the counter.

When you look at him again, he's smiling a slight, sweet sort of smile, and you really want to kiss him again, but you don't want to scare him off, so you hold yourself back.

He says that the pork fried rice is for you, since he figured it was a safe bet, that the chow mein is for him, and once the two of you are settled onto your couch, takeout in hand (or mouth, rather), with an episode of That 70's Show on for background noise, he opens up a little bit.

It's not like he tells you his life story or anything, but he rambles and rants a lot, and he's letting his guard down, speaking louder and more clearly than he had been the few times you'd seen him since Monday. (He came in again yesterday and on Wednesday.)

He's more expressive, too, and, alright, you'll admit it--you're smitten with him, and the feeling increases after getting into a laughing fit over something dumb you'd said on accident.

There's this weird exchange of energy afterward, after the laughing fit, and it's the kind of energy exchange that makes you place a hand on one of his stubbly cheeks to turn his head towards you so that you can lead him into a kiss.

If someone were to ask you why you kissed him, you'd just say that it was because you felt like it. It works out, of course. He kisses back, and he's definitely as into it as you are. He's even better at kissing when he's sober, and the hummingbirds in your stomach feel as if they're about to rip themselves out at any moment now, because, hey, you're kissing the hottest guy you've ever seen. It's no surprise that your nerves are going wild.

He's the one who pulls away, and you only manage to look him in the eye for maybe a few seconds before either of you are getting into another laughing fit, except this time it isn't as intense as the last one, and it doesn't leave you with tears in your eyes.

\---

Dallon's sort of like you in which he almost always gets his way. It's a businessman thing you think. Businessmen are tricky.

He starts coming in about three or four times a week, and each time he leaves you a one hundred dollar tip. You quit questioning him after the third week, since that's when you realize that he's stubborn, and that, y'know, he almost always gets his way. (Almost being the keyword, but, at the moment, that's not relevant.)

He's more subtle about being stubborn than you might think. He isn't abrasive or aggressive about it like Pete is, but rather he has this air of authority and aloofness about him that allows him to get away with it. (Of course, you can see through his shit with ease.)

\---

You sleep with him for the first time about two months after you meet him. It's the middle of September at this point, and you'd like to consider yourself pretty good friends with him. He comes over on Saturdays, sometimes Sundays, sometimes both, and there's even been a few times he's popped up in the evenings on a weekday. You talk with him, and the two of you just... click.

You also almost always end up making out with him whenever he comes over, though, but you'd still like to consider him a good friend. A good friend who's fun to kiss.

It never really goes further than kissing until this one time, honestly. You think the most it's escalated is the two of you grinding your hips against each other, but he always finds a way to smoothly cut it off before it can escalate.

From the way he acts, you suspect that you're the first guy he's ever actually done anything with. He's rigid and hesitant, as if he's not sure on what he's supposed to do when it comes to making out with you, and you sort of have to explain to him that he's allowed to let his hands wander rather than keeping them on your waist or your hips.

You really don't care if he gets handsy, honestly. In fact, you'd like it if he were to get handsy. He's let himself grope your ass through your jeans a few times, but only a few times. He always acts as if you're going to bite his head off, and he apologizes.

The one time it does escalate, well... It's the usual. You're sitting in his lap, he has his hands on your ass for once, and either of you are half hard. The only thing that's unusual is that you make a bold move by moving your hand down to rub him through his slacks.

He makes a noise that's, quite honestly, super hot, but then he's pulling away from you, grabbing your wrist, looking mortified. "What are you doing?"

"Touching your dick...? Was that not okay?" You're cringing at yourself. You should've asked him for his consent first. God. You hope he doesn't hate you.

"It's--it's fine. I just--I wasn't expecting it."

"Do you want me to stop? I'm totally cool with it if you want to go back to watching Special Victims Unit." You're look at his eyes, making eye contact, waiting for an honest answer.

He clams up for a second before he's sighing and letting his head fall back onto the back of your couch. He's like that for about half a minute before he's looking back up at you. "I haven't really done anything with another man before. I mean, I have, but it's never gone past a blow job or a hand job."

"I figured."

"I'm also married. To a woman."

A married man? Well, that's a first, even for you, and you're kind of the village whore when it comes down to it. You scoot back in his lap and you shift your expression to, hopefully, be unreadable. "Of course you are. I'm against cheating and all, but its your decision if you want to do this, just as ong as you don't push the blame onto me if you fuck your marriage up."

"I would never blame you for that. It's--it's not the best marriage. I mean... we're here. In this situation. All of this is of my own volition and it wouldn't be fair if I blamed you for that when it's a fuck up on my part. I do want to, uh... you know." He makes a vague hand gesture, and you stick your tongue in your cheek before replying with a smug little smirk on your face.

"No, I don't know. What _do_ you want to do?"

You scoot forward on his lap again, and his hands are running up and down your thighs as he's trying to find words. You pop the top button on his shirt as you start kissing, licking, nipping, and sucking at his neck a bit. He lets out a noise that can only be described as pure sin. It's nothing loud, and, in fact, it sounded restrained, but it was still hot as hell.

You let your lips travel up his neck and his jaw, until they're next to his ear so you can whisper, "You can tell me what you want."

"It sounds crude," he mumbles.

"Don't care. We're both hard as a rock anyways, and I was kind of touching your dick a few minutes ago."

He groans, calls you a smart ass, then says, "I want to fuck you, alright?"

You grin wolfishly, but you let it fall to a bit of a smirk before he can see it. "I'd like that," you're saying before capturing his lips in a kiss. This time when you reach your hand down to rub him through his slacks, basically giving him a hand job, he lets you, and he moans into the kiss, and, okay, yeah--you're eating up every single bit of this.

You take your hand off of his dick long enough to unbutton his shirt, but when you're down to about the middle of it, he grabs your wrists, pulling away from your lips. "I'm not, like... that in shape."

"Do I look like I give a shit?"

"You don't, but... you're all... you all gorgeous, and I just--I feel inferior."

You roll your eyes. "I'm sure you're gorgeous too. I mean, if you don't want to take your shirt off, that's totally fine, but I'm almost positive that I'm going to like what I see. I'm not the kind of guy who's going to expect you to look like you just stepped out of a Calvin Klein underwear ad."

He scrunches his face up and he looks adorable, honestly. You continue popping the buttons on his shirt, not kissing him, but just watching as more and more of his chest and abdomen become more visible. He leans forward as you're opening his shirt, sliding it off of his shoulders and his arms.

He's cute, you'll be honest. He doesn't have much going on in terms of muscle, but his chest and his stomach are just a _little_ pudgy and he's just--he's fucking adorable. You bend down to kiss one of his collarbones and you run your hands up his sides and over his chest until they're on his shoulders.

You end up sliding off of his lap and onto the floor between his legs, letting your hands trail down his chest and his stomach as you do. His pupils are dilated, and the flush from his cheeks is spreading all the way down to his chest. You look at him, as if to ask permission, and he nods.

You unbuckle his belt, noticing that it's Prada, and wondering how lucrative being a stockbroker really is. Next, you're unbuttoning his slacks, and slowly pulling the zipper down, and before you go any further, you ask, "Are you alright with what's happening?"

He nods quickly and that's all you need to be motioning for him to lift his hips up so you can tug his slacks and his boxers down to the middle of his thighs. You jaw drops open a little bit at the sight of his dick. You'll put it this way--he's fucking _hung._

It's not like there's some monstrous twelve inch cock between his legs that's going to absolutely ravage you, but his dick is still the biggest you've seen in person, and, let's be real, you've seen plenty of dicks. If you had to estimate, you'd say it was at least eight inches. You sit back on your heels and peel your shirt off. You're not exactly in perfect shape either, and you hope Dallon sees that and feels more comfortable.

You spit into one of your palms and bite your lip at the way he gasps and throws his head back when you're taking hold of him and stroking him slowly. You say, "I want you to watch me," before you're taking the tip of his cock into your mouth. His head comes back up and he makes eye contact with you for a few seconds before you're closing your eyes.

You tease him at first. You bob your head shallowly, only taking three inches or so into your mouth at a time, not even enough to hit your tonsils. You figure that he assumes that's about all you can do, but, no--he's about to be impressed. Although you do have a gag reflex, it's hard to trigger, and you're easily able to take his entire length down your throat.

He quits holding back his moans after that. You wait until he's close before you pull off, loving the string of saliva and precum between your lips and the head of his cock. "Where the _hell_ did you learn how to do that?"

You clear your throat a bit before standing up. "I was busy in high school and when I first moved here." You motion for him to get up as well, and he does after tucking himself back into his boxers. He pulls his pants back up but doesn't zip them or buckle his belt as you're leading him to your bedroom by the hand.

Your room isn't anything fancy. You can't really afford much, so your bed is just a box spring and a mattress on the floor. It's clean and all, but it's no Hampton Inn. There's clothes scattered around the room, and you apologize quietly before going around and picking them all up, dropping them into your hamper.

Now probably isn't the best time to be getting embarrassed about your room not being the neatest. You don't even have an actual bedside table--it's just a box with an alarm clock, a tiny cactus, the container for your contacts, saline solution, and your glasses. You feel like Dallon lives in some mansion and, yeah, he's probably not impressed with your room.

You open your closet and move a few conveniently placed blankets in a laundry basket to grab a bottle of lube and a condom. (You never know when you're going to have guests over, so you're careful to make sure nothing questionable is in plain sight.)

Dallon looks curious, if anything, as you're placing the two items onto the bed, and as you're grabbing a packet of baby wipes. (Baby wipes are the cheapest and most convenient thing you can buy to... clean up after sex, and they don't irritate your skin or your nether regions, so, hey, why not?) You _know_ that he has no idea what he's doing, so you mentally prepare yourself to coach him through it.

"What are the baby wipes for?"

"I use them to clean up spunk after I have sex," You answer bluntly as you're taking your own pants and underwear off. You're pretty shameless about your body, something Dallon obviously isn't used to, or so you assume, judging by the wide-eyed sort of look you get out of him. "It's a pain in the ass to get up and grab a wet wash cloth, literally and figuratively."

Dallon smiles a little timidly. "I don't--I don't know what I'm supposed to do."

"I know, and that's why I'm going to tell you what to do, so that maybe next time you're a little more prepared." You smirk at him and stick out your tongue playfully. "Take your pants and underwear off and c'mere."

He obeys you, and he scoots to sit in front of where you're sitting. You lean forward and up a bit to kiss him, trying to be comforting in a way.

When you're reaching around him for the condom and the lube, you ask, "You're still alright with everything that's happening, right?"

"Think of me like an inexperienced virgin. I mean, if you were a girl, we'd be good." He shrugs, trying to be funny.

You supply him with a smile. "Well, the idea is the same. It's different than having sex with a girl, because, well... I have a dick," you gesture shamelessly to your dick, which, by the way, is very hard, before continuing, "and it takes more preparation, but the idea is the same--stick your dick in and move. Not literally, though. Do _not_ try sticking your dick in and moving unless you want to get kicked out of here."

"I won't, I promise."

"Good." After that, you start telling him what to do, and how everything works, and, alright--he's a prostate prodigy. He gives you a smug look when he's between your legs, working three fingers in and out of you, somehow managing to hit that specific spot dead on almost every time.

The actual, full on, penetrative sex part, though... It's fucking great. He doesn't start fucking you senseless right off the bat. No, he goes slow, and he's gentle with you at first. It slips your mind that he's married as you're sucking hickies into his neck and shoulders once he's fucking you at a somewhat brutal pace. (After working up to it, of course.)

\---

You spend the night at Brendon's apartment, which is a bad idea. You've been slipping up a lot lately, trying to juggle _not_ ruining your marriage and trying not to start having a full blown affair with Brendon, but you've screwed up the second part, and you're about to screw up the first part.

Your phone is dead, and Brendon didn't have a compatible charger with him, so you can only imagine how many missed calls you have. You're also doing the walk of shame, and you have hickeys that can _barely_ be covered up by the collar of your shirts.

When you walk into your home, you call your wife's name, figuring it's probably a good idea to be blunt and straightforward with her. She asks, "Where were you last night?" and she looks heartbroken. She knows. She'd be stupid not to. She'd be stupid to not notice that you haven't been wearing your wedding band for a little over a year now, and she'd be stupid to not notice that you've been distancing yourself since you met Brendon. (Not that she knows about Brendon.)

You motion for her to follow you as you head towards the kitchen. You sit across from her at the table and you make eye contact when you say, "I've been having an affair with a barista from Starbucks since July, and I don't have any excuses readily available to pull out of my ass."

She's not the kind of person to yell and scream at you. She's kind. She's too kind and she's too nice and she really doesn't deserve to be stuck with you. You're not a bad person, but you don't love her like you should. She asks, "What's she like?"

"He's about 5'7" and he's... I don't know how to describe him. I won't go so far as to say I love him since I met him in July, but... we're close." She's also been your best friend and your confidant since the two of you were freshmen.

"So, you're gay?"

The lack of surprise on her face doesn't shock you. Like you said, she's known you for thirteen years and you've been married to her for six of them. _She knows._ "Yes."

"Why haven't you said anything?"

"It's complicated." It is. You don't know how to describe it. Brendon would probably know, but obviously you _don't._

"Do you love me?"

"I do, but not like I should."

\---

Pete gets one look at you on Monday before he's up your ass. You've covered your hickeys up expertly, a skill you acquired in high school, mostly since you didn't want him to be pestering you, but you're still limping a little bit because, hey, you got your brains fucked out on Saturday.

Pete calls you out, saying, "Somebody looks fucked out." He's leaning against the door frame to the backroom, arms crossed, with a shit-eating look settling onto his face.

It's as if he has a radar for stuff like this. Like, if one thing happens in your love or sex life, he _knows,_ and wants details. You don't try to defend yourself, just saying a simple, "Yeah. I know."

"I want details. Who, what, when, where, why, and positions."

"Dallon, I don't know what, Saturday, my apartment, because we were both horny, and missionary. Respectively."

Pete looks flabbergasted. "Was he _good?"_ He's following you back out to the main area, and while he's organizing coffee, and while you're organizing chairs, you answer him.

"Very. He's married and I gave him hickeys on accident."

Pete puts a hand over his mouth. "No fucking way."

"I'm not lying. Also, I'm apparently the first guy he's ever slept with."

"Oh my _god._ Brendon! How old is he?"

"Twenty seven."

"You're having an _affair_ with a married stockbroker. I can't--I can't believe you." His words sound like he's scolding you, but he's laughing, and he looks impressed.

"I can't help it, man." You let out a little whine and stomp your feet on the ground a little bit, because, "He's so _hot,_ and I'm so _slutty."_

\---

You're a little bummed out by the end of the day since Dallon doesn't come in. Sometimes he doesn't come in on Mondays. Usually his choice days are Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, then you hang out with him on the weekends. He doesn't show up at all this week, or during the weekend.

You're bothered by the fact that he's married. You have a crush on him, and you've _had_ a crush on him since the first time you saw him. You want to have a relationship with him, but you can't, because he's married and having an affair. With you.


	4. Chapter 4

The Wednesday following the Wednesday after you sleep with him is the next time someone knocks on your door. You're expecting Pete, honestly, _maybe_ Patrick if Pete did something dumb, or possibly Josh, if he's dying, but you don't expect Dallon, even though you probably should have. He just stares blankly into your face when you open the door, saying a simple, "Hi."

You don't respond to him as you're stepping aside to let him in. You're testy. _He fucks me, good, might I add, doesn't speak to me for a week and a half, then just shows up out of nowhere. What an asshole._

He drapes his blazer and his coat over the back of one of your dining chairs, and places his keys on your coffee table, where he usually does, before he sits down at one end of your couch. You're on the floor working on economics homework at your coffee table, but you move your pen and close your textbook, and you cut him off before he can say anything. "If you're leading me on, then tell me. I don't want to think we're something that we aren't. Don't really care about your intentions as long as you don't hurt me."

 _"Well,"_ he starts, giving you a pointed look, "if you would let me talk, I was going to inform you that my wife left me a few days ago."

Your heart drops into your stomach. That's not good. "You're not mad at me, are you...? I didn't mean to give you the hickeys. If you're here to yell at me, please don't, man."

He rolls his eyes a little bit and sighs. "I'm the one who fucked up. Not your fault. I came here to talk. Can I talk to you? Or could you at least listen? I just--I have a few things I want to get off my chest, and you're the only person I trust enough to go to." He looks upset, honestly, and you feel a little bad. He doesn't look as if he's been crying or anything, but you can see the way he's fidgeting with his hands and taking deliberately deep breaths in the way that _you_ usually do when you're trying to keep yourself calm.

"You can talk to me if you need to." You aren't going to deprive him of having someone to confide in. "I wouldn't kick you out for that. I _was_ getting ready to tear you a new asshole just in case, though." You add the last part in a bit of a _tone,_ and he chuckles, meaning your goal is accomplished. "Do you want anything to drink?"

"No thanks. I'm good. I feel like I could throw up, so it's probably not safe to let me around any liquids or foods."

You nod. "Alright. What was it you wanted to talk about?" You're trying to be careful with how you speak to him. You're not even sure about what to think right now. His face looks grim, which is off putting, since hes usually full of shy smiles and sunshine. You can also feel the sadness radiating from him, and you kind of want to give him a hug, but you don't know if he'd appreciate that.

"If I start talking, with you listen? You don't--you don't have to respond."

"Go for it." You lean forward so you can rest your elbows on the coffee table, with your chin in your palms while he speaks.

He's quiet for a few minutes before quietly stating, "I'm gay." He sound scared. You really feel bad for him. You're also biting your cheek and trying not to laugh, though, because now isn't the time. "You probably already know, but I needed to say it out loud."

"My apartment is a queer friendly zone, so don't worry."

He smiles a little bit, but his expression falls pretty quickly as he continues. "My wife has known for a while. We've known each other for thirteen years and we've been married for six of them. Like, she knew. She'd be stupid not to. I've also gotten bad at hiding it lately, and the Sunday before last we sat down and had a talk."

You motion for him to continue.

"She asked me where I was Saturday night, and I told her that I've been having an affair with you. I mean, I didn't tell her your name or anything, but she knew I was having an affair. To reiterate: She'd be stupid not to. She didn't yell at me or anything. I want to say that surprises me, but it doesn't. She's not the kind of person who yells and screams at people. She's too nice for that. You know what she did, though?"

"Tell me."

"She asked me what you were like. Of course, she also assumed you were woman, but I told her."

"What'd you say about me?" You give him a bit of a playful look. Sure, you still pity him a little bit, but that doesn't mean you can't try to make him smile.

"Told her that I didn't really know how to describe you, but that we're... close. Is that safe to say? Are we close?"

"I think that's safe to say, yeah."

"She said that she thinks it's for the best if we weren't together, and she spent the week just... moving out. I'm filing for divorce next week. You want to know what the real kicker is, though?"

"Hm?"

"I feel _relieved."_

"I can't blame you for that."

"It's just--our relationship was falling apart for so long, and I really don't know why we didn't just... end it sooner. You know, she even asked me if I loved her." Dallon lets out a bitter laugh followed by a bitter smile, and wipes one of his eyes.

"Do you? Love her, I mean."

"We've been together since we were in high school. I--I'd be surprised if I _didn't_ love her. I just--I don't love her like I should. I told her that too. I love her like a best friend, not like my wife. I misinterpreted it as romantic love, and didn't even realize my mistake until I was, what, twenty four? We'd been married for three years at that point. Plus, I was still in college at that point, and my parents were paying for it, so I didn't want to risk losing that just for coming out as gay.

"I really like you, Brendon. I wouldn't go so far as to say I love you, considering we've only known each other for a few months now, and that we don't know each other _that_ well, but this--whatever we have--this is how I should feel about my wife, but I _don't._ This is the first time I've ever actually and _genuinely_ liked someone romantically, and I mean _like._ Like I said, I'm just--I'm relieved that it's over and I'm relieved that I'm not _broken_ or anything. I'm--I'm just--I'm gay." He lets out a pretty deep breath. "I feel guilty too, though. I should've said something sooner, should've broken it off sooner, but I didn't."

"Today isn't yesterday. Don't beat yourself up for not doing anything sooner. Things happen when they're meant to." You get up from your spot on the floor, and you go to join him on the couch. You aren't touching him or anything, just sitting on the other end, watching him.

"It's so weird. I'm _twenty seven_ for Christ's sake! I'm twenty seven and this is the first time I've ever _consciously_ liked someone like this. I mean, I remember liking a few boys in grade school, middle school, and high school before I met her, but I didn't know that was what romantic feelings felt like. I'm so _stupid."_

"Hey, hey." You scoot over to him, and pull him into a hug. "You're not stupid, Dallon. Shit happens." He's frustrated and that's probably why he's crying a little bit. You cry when you're frustrated. He's not an ugly crier like you are, though. He's quiet and shaking and you're just trying your best to make him feel comfortable and safe.

"Can I keep going?" He's asking as he regains his composure, sitting up and wiping at his eyes. He looks at you, and he looks so miserable. You want to hug him again, but you don't.

"Of course you can."

He nods, and then he's reaching over to hold your hand. His hand is a lot bigger than yours but your hand still fits perfectly with his when he's intertwining his fingers with yours. "Everything with her felt so forced, but this?" He lifts either of your hands up, gesturing at them with his other hand. "This doesn't feel forced. Not to me. I've never had any _real_ urge to hold her hand or to kiss her or to show much affection in general. I just--I did it out of necessity, because I thought that's what you were supposed to do. I didn't know that people actually liked doing that stuff, at least not until I met you, y'know? I actually want to hug you, hold your hand, kiss you--the whole fucking works. I've never wanted that from a person before. Part of why she could tell is that I was cutting myself off from her, but that I was also in a better mood while doing so apparently. It just--it wasn't fair."

You scoot closer to him so you can lean on him a bit. You're not trying to be weird--you're just an affectionate guy, alright? "I understand. I can't necessarily relate, since I came out to my friends when I was fourteen or fifteen, and since I was in a relationship with a very shitty guy for two and a half years during high school, but I feel you, man."

He nods, and it doesn't take you long to be giving him another hug, saying, "C'mere," as you do so. Despite being nine inches taller than you, he feels so small right now.

 

You end up making Dallon change out of his work clothes, since, honestly, suits are just uncomfortable and not the easiest to relax in. You give him a pair of flannel pants and one of your old oversized shirts before wrapping him up in your duvet.

You make him a glass of tea while also watching him warily from your kitchen. When you were little and upset, your mother used to make tea for you, and, hell, even Pete made tea for you on the rare occasion you'd have a panic while you were living with him. (Which only happened maybe five times over the course of two years, but still.)

You don't think Dallon had a panic attack, but you do know that he's upset, and, look, tea soothes the soul, alright? You raise your voice a little bit to say, "It's nothing fancy. Just Lipton," to make sure he can hear you from your kitchen.

"Oh, don't worry." He waves his hand dismissively before returning it to the cocoon of duvet he'd made for himself. "That's the kind I buy."

You just nod, and after dropping an ice cube into the cup so it doesn't absolutely ruin his mouth, you walk over to where he is in your living room to hand it to him. "It's not, but I put an ice cube in it so it doesn't scald you or anything."

He thanks you for the tea. You sit on the other end of the couch and start playing something on Netflix to kill the awkward silence. Or, well, not necessarily awkward, but you're not fond of silence. Netflix sort of help with that.

He chats with you a bit, and the two of you kind of just enjoy each others company until the clock strikes midnight and he admits that he doesn't know what to do. "Oh, exist? Revel in the fact that you're once again a bachelor? Have wild sex with gorgeous men?"

"I'm too old for that last part. Partying and clubbing weren't really ever my game." He rolls his eyes and you nudge him in the arm.

"Yeah, but you've been in a monogamous relationship since you were in high school, dude."

He gives you a bored look. "I wasn't faithful in the first place, but if I liked partying or clubbing, then I would've went to more parties and clubs. I do what I want, and if I don't want to do something, then I don't."

"Clubs and parties are fun. I don't enjoy the getting hungover part, but, like I said, it's fun." You're rambling, as usual. "I haven't had a chance to lately, though, because I have college, rent, and a job to worry about, not to mention that I'm fucking exhausted all the time."

"College?" His interest piques.

"Oh, right. I never mentioned it, did I?"

"Apparently not. Talk to me about it. Probably more interesting than my shit."

"Well, I have no idea what I'm majoring in yet, but this is my second year. I'm only taking two or three classes a semester since I can't really afford more, and I have classes on Tuesdays and Thursdays in the evenings. I have an online class as well. It's a fucking nightmare, but I don't have time to not do it online, y'know?"

He nods. "Online classes weren't really a thing when I was in college, honestly. They probably would've made my life a helluva lot easier if they were, though."

"What do you have a degree in?"

"I have a masters in economics. I'm tempted to go for a PhD, honestly, but do I _really_ want to be a doctor of economics?"

You grin and chuckle a bit. "You should do it. You could tell people you're a doctor, and they'd think you do heart surgeries or something, whereas you're a stockbroker."

"It'd definitely throw people for a loop," he responds with a soft laugh.

"I've never actually met a stockbroker before, so can I ask how it works? Like... What do you do, exactly?"

"Sell stocks. It's not that complicated. I get commission whenever I sell anything, and I'm pretty fucking good at my job, so y'know. I think the firm I work for... Their starting rate for new stockbrokers is around one percent, but I'm good at my job and I know some people in high places, so I'm sort of making around fifty percent. If I sold something that netted a profit of, say, one million, then I'd get five hundred thou."

"Huh. That's awesome. I'm not going to ask how much you make, because that's, like, a little invasive, but that's pretty cool."

"If you're asking if I'm a millionaire, I'm not. Yet. I still have to act like an asshole though so people don't take advantage of me. You're not, are you? Taking advantage of me?" He looks at you, sort of worried.

"Although I'm sure you'd make a perfectly fine sugar daddy, I'm not taking advantage of you. I'd feel too guilty. Seriously, though, if I was using you for money, you'd know. You can keep your money. I don't want it. I don't like taking things from people or accepting monetary support from anyone unless absolutely necessary, and, no offense, but like you said, we don't know each other that well. Shit--I've known Pete since I was fourteen and I still have trouble asking him for twenty bucks if I'm short on a bill or something."

"How old are? You, uh, never actually told me. I mean, I'm assuming you're younger than me, but I didn't know exactly."

"I turned twenty in April," you say sheepishly.

His eyes widen and he scoffs before whacking you in the arm. (Playfully and gently, of course.) "You're _twenty_ and you let me buy you _alcohol?_ Asshole! I could've gotten arrested."

"But you didn't, and it was, like, two months ago."

He makes a face and groans, and you just grin a tiny bit.

The two of you settle into a bout of silence until he's breaking it. "Can we start over?"

You give him a weird look. "What do you mean?"

"Can we start over? I like you, _a lot,_ and I want to take the time to properly date you and get to know you, rather than keeping you a secret and making sure not to be seen with you."

"You've done that?" You raise your eyebrows and scoff.

"No! No, I haven't done that. I went about trying to... I don't know, _court you,_ all wrong. We already kind of know each other, and we get along pretty alright, I think, and I'd like to consider us friends, but I just--I want to take the time to get to know you _properly,_ rather than coming over here to eat takeout, watch Netflix, and make out like a couple of teenagers."

"That's completely understandable and reasonable."

"Also, the sex thing--I love sex, it's great, but it's also something that I don't regard lightly and it's, like... It's basically the ultimate expression of affection and love for me, and I just--I'm not the kind of guy who has one night stands. I mean, alright, I've let a couple of guys give me blow jobs before, but do you know what I mean?"

You nod.

He continues. "Yeah. I just... It was fun, I guess, but I would like to actually establish a relationship with you before doing that again."

"That's also understandable and reasonable."

"Alright, so, I want a relationship with you, or to at least see where things go. What do you want?"

"Uh... I'll take what I can get, I guess."

"That's not what I asked. What do you want?"

You sigh. You're not used to answering questions like this. You really aren't. You settle on the response of, "You," though.

It's good enough for him. "Alright, well, with that--would you like to go on a date next weekend?"

"Actually, yeah, I'd really like that, Dallon."

You smile shyly and he leans over to give you a slow and sweet kiss and, okay, your heart flutters a bit.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i like how at the beginning of this fic urie is all like "HHHAHAHAHHAHAAHAAFSDUC K" @ dallon all the time but then like within the next 10k-ish words probably theyre basically married dljgn
> 
> also holidays are in this chapter smfh. like thanksgiving, christmas, and new years maybe more

Dallon shows up at your apartment on the day he said he would, two Saturdays after he told you his wife left him. He has his hands behind his back, and when you raise your eyebrows at him, he pulls out a bouquet of flowers. They're beautiful, honestly. You can see tulips and lilacs and gardenias, plus a few others that you don't know the name of, and you swoon.

You let him in long enough for you to put the bouquet into the one vase you own for whatever reason. The flowers will probably be wilted in a few days, but, for now, you're going to stare at them fondly and enjoy them for as long as possible.

Dallon kisses you on the cheek before he's leading you out of your apartment. (You've been ready to go since before he even got there.) While the two of you are in his car, he spares you a glance, saying, "You look very nice."

You try not to blush like a teenager as you thank him and return the sentiment. You're wearing the best outfit you have. Okay, not your best, but you didn't want to drag out the suit you have reserved for funerals and weddings. You settled on a tasteful navy blue blazer, a white button up, a tasteful black tie, and your cleanest and tightest fitting pair of black jeans. You also dragged out your dress shoes for this occasion. You look _damn_ fine.

Your hair is ridiculous, though. You managed to style it to not look disgusting, but that doesn't change the fact that it looks kind of like a bowl cut, nor does it change the fact that it needs to be cut.

Now _Dallon_ looks like he's in his emo phase. Everything he's wearing is _black._ Black blazer, black tie, black shirt, black slacks, black shoes, and you're pretty sure he's wearing black socks. You don't even know if its on purpose, or what. Thankfully, he doesn't have the haircut for it. You're pretty sure he'd look pretty freaking ugly with an emo haircut. (His hair is sort of messy but he still manages to make it look formal and professional. He's fucking beautiful.)

The restaurant he takes you to is... something, to say the least. It's nothing out of the ordinary, aside from the prices being fucking insane, at least for your budget, not to mention the atmosphere of the place being simultaneously romantic yet intimidating. It's one of those places that you could only dream of being able to go to. Olive Garden? Sure, that would've been enough to tide you over, but this place was like an Olive Garden times _ten._

The two of you talk, and he, honestly, charms the hell out of you, just like he always does, and it just perpetuates the fact that you're smitten. You try your best just to be yourself, and it works, plus, it's pretty... nice. You don't feel like you're trying too hard. Dallon still listens intently as you ramble on about something that'd happened in your economics class, still acting like you're the most interesting person in the world, and smiling once in awhile too.

After the date, the official one, he hangs out with you at your apartment. Like, _actually_ hang out. Sure, you give in and kiss him a few times and the two of you hold hands while watching a movie, but the two of you actually talk and it doesn't escalate into a make out session or anything more than that.

Things go on like this for a few months. He takes you on wonderful dates, the two of you hang out, mostly at your apartment, but once in a while at his house, either of you kiss a little bit here and there, sometimes making out, and it's, like... really nice. You've never really _dated_ anyone before and not had sex with them.

He starts letting his barriers fall down, at least around you, and you like the person he is. He's pretty goofy and not at all smooth like you first thought he was, and he's kind of a smart ass. His humor is more dry and subtle than yours is, and he deadpans a lot, but he's still hilarious and has, on multiple occasions, made you laugh hard enough to start crying.

His looks quit being as guarded and he quits screaming nervous and insecure at you like he used to when you first met him. He gets a lot more affectionate as well. You're able to hold his hand, hug him, cuddle him, _kiss_ him--all that without him pretty much crawling out of his skin whenever you do and it's nice.

\---

Things with Dallon get... serious during the first week of November. It's not like you're engaged to him. The two of you still aren't officially an item yet, but you're together. That, itself, doesn't change. It's the dynamic of the relationship that does, and it's not in a bad way.

Nothing even specifically happens, but the difference is there, and you aren't sure on how to properly explain it.

He'd bought a house in Harrison, which is only a little inconvenient for you whenever you want to see him or need to go home from his house, since you sort of have to borrow gas money, since Harrison is about an hour from where you live.

 _Anyways,_ the point is that he invited you over to celebrate making his first million, and to celebrate moving into a new and even better house. He pops a cork on a bottle of champagne, and after pouring a few glasses for either of you (he makes you swear not to tell anyone that he's letting you drink) you're getting pulled in for an excited kiss, and after you pull away, you share a moment of _eye contact_ with him, there's an exchange of energy, and something just... _changes._

You wont figure out what the moment meant until you're in your mid twenties, fondly thinking back on the beginning of your relationship with Dallon, who's going to be laying with his face smushed into your chest and one of his hands on your shoulder, sleeping soundly.

Present time, though, you have no clue what you're feeling, but you _like it._ Or you like him. You _really_ like him, and you have this weird but not unpleasant feeling in your gut.

\---

The week after what you've dubbed as 'The Moment,' Dallon pops up at your apartment. You'd been in the kitchen area of your apartment fixing yourself a meal when he'd walked in. He hardly even acknowledges you as he face plants onto your couch, and, alright--you'd be lying if you said you weren't at least a little concerned.

You pause making your dinner to bring him a glass of ice water, and when you ask him if he's okay, he just holds up a finger, signaling for you to give him a bit, and you just meekly say, "Alright," before going back to your kitchen to resume what you were doing.

You watch him from over the 'bar' (read as: counter space that juts out from the wall) and eventually he sits up straight. He kicks his shoes off and waits to start talking until you're sitting next to him on the couch with a chicken salad. (Like, actual salad with chicken, Parmesan, and ranch in it, not the stuff you mash together with mayo and relish.)

"I told my parents."

"That you're gay?" You ask around a mouthful of the salad.

"Yes." He just sighs, face not even looking downcast or upset. He doesn't look at you.

"Uh... how'd it go...?"

"Well, considering they're devout Mormons, it went about as expected. They gave me a bullshit lecture about how homosexuality is wrong, immoral, and a sin, and how I'd come to regret this, and _that_ prompted me to retaliate because, for fuck's sake, I'm twenty _seven._ Long story short, I was asked to leave, and I'm not expecting any contact to them."

He doesn't even seem sad to you, honestly. He _does_ seem super pissed off, though. "I can't really help, I guess, but I can offer my condolences."

He shakes his head and slumps over a little bit. "Don't worry about it. You're fine."

"So... Does that mean you're not doing anything for Thanksgiving?"

He thinks for a moment. "Huh. I guess it does."

"Well, in that case, Pete's having a little party or whatever. It's not a house party or anything, but a few of his friends, and me, are going to be there, and if you wanted, you could come with me. I'm sure he wouldn't mind. He is sort of insufferable, though, and is most likely going to tease us."

"You're insufferably and _you_ tease me. I think I can deal."

You roll your eyes and gently get him in the leg with your foot. "We're, like, an unofficial couple. I'm allowed to be insufferable and to tease you."

He gives you a grin that says, 'Go fuck yourself, Brendon,' but he's still leaning over to kiss you anyways.

You grin into the kiss, and laugh a little bit when he sneaks in one more peck after you pull away. "Quit kissing me, you goof. Tell me if you want to go."

"I would be honored to go to Pete's party with you."

\---

Surprisingly, Pete doesn't tease either you or Dallon on Thanksgiving. He isn't up your ass with questions, but rather behaving like a normal human being. It'd be off putting if not for the fact he's watching either of you like a hawk.

The second you're walking through the door, Pete's kid is running towards you, pretty much screaming, "Uncle Brendon!" as he all but knocks you over from catapulting himself into your arms.

You grin, saying, "Hey, little dude." Pete's kid is pretty cool. You're not huge on children, because they're loud and messy, but you lived with Pete for a few years, meaning you had time to bond with his kid, especially considering that babysitting was your part of the rent. (You still babysit sometimes, but not often. Usually either Pete or Patrick are home at any given time.) (Dallon seems confused as to why Pete has a kid even though he's with a man, and you whisper, "I'll explain later," into his ear.)

You carry his kid on your hip until you're standing in front of Pete, which is where you set him down with a comment about the kid getting heavy. Pete gives you a quick hug, and then executes an awkward handshake with Dallon. Well, it's awkward on Dallon's end. Dallon's just an awkward guy in general, especially when hes out of his element. (You're sure he's different in professional situations, though.)

\---

There's a bit of a meme, so to speak, within your friend group. You've known Pete since you were a freshman, and, by extension, you've known Patrick and Josh for about the same amount of time. Since you moved to New York almost three years ago, all _three_ of them have been trying to get you and Josh's boyfriend, Tyler, you believe, to meet, but every single time it's about to happen, either he or you have something come up, and it ends up not happening.

Thanksgiving 2012 isn't an exception.

This time, the excuse is, "He's in Lebanon."

\---

You're pretty sure Dallon was expecting there to actually be a sit-down dinner with a turkey and stuffing, but, no, he was sorely mistaken. His expression when a pizza shows up basically says, "Huh."

Since there's six of you, the pizzas don't last very long, and Dallon ends up being the one to disappear for a while to go get Chinese takeout. It's _then_ that Pete starts in on the questioning. "How long?"

"How long _what?"_

"You know what I mean."

"A few months. Ish. We aren't exactly exclusive yet. Together, sure, but not officially."

"Why not?" Pete raises an eyebrow.

"Neither of us have found a time to bring it up, alright? Anyways, can you not ask me about this stuff when we're in front of your kid, your fiance, and Josh?"

"I like how I'm just 'Josh.'"

You give Josh a look.

He holds eye contact until you look away.

 

You go home with Dallon a few hours later to watch a few movies and to fool around a bit. (Fooling around mostly entails kissing each other and playfully copping a feel here and there.)

You've gone to his house about twice a week, on average, since he'd bought it during the last week of October. Each time you sleep in one of the extra bedrooms, or on the couch, but when you're getting ready to part ways with him to go sleep in the room you usually slept in, he's grabbing your hand and jerking his head towards his bedroom, and you just raise an eyebrow, but you don't question him.

He's incredibly cuddly and warm and you sleep really easy that night.

\---

It's not even a surprise to you, but you end up at Dallon's house on Christmas. As far as quality goes, you like his house a lot better than your apartment, but your apartment is kind of your home. It's a sensible house. Mostly. Five bedrooms, three bathrooms, a giant kitchen with granite counter tops and top of the line appliances, a three car garage, and his living room is probably about the same size as your entire apartment. (That's an exaggeration, but it's pretty big.)

You stand outside of his house, ringing his doorbell for a solid two and a half minutes, since it's fucking _freezing,_ and _snowing,_ and since he's taking for freaking ever to respond. When he door does open you're getting an incredulous look out of him. "I was taking a _leak,_ you _dick._ You're not going to _die."_ He rolls his eyes, and invites you in.

 

Not a whole lot had happened since Thanksgiving. He still comes over to your apartment on the weekends, and he's taken you on a few dates since then too. The two of you still hang out, kiss, and do other things that couples usually do.

You receive a card, a pair of ear buds, and a jacket from him. He says he got the ear buds, since you complained _one time_ about the ones you already had not being the best, and since you apparently complain about being cold a lot, he'd gotten you the jacket, because, hey, it's practical, y'know?

You carefully peel open the envelope his card to you was in, and you're pretty sure he goes to an actual card shop for cards instead of, like, Walgreens or something, since it looks tasteful instead of cheesy. _'Merry Christmas'_ is engraved onto the front of the card in ornate, golden script, and when you open it, five one hundred dollar bills almost fall out.

You explicitly told him not to spend more than a few hundred dollars on you, and that was at the _most._ You take the money, make sure the bills are neat, before handing it to him, saying, "No. I really love the note, I mean, it's sentimental and sappy, so of course I do, but I still don't want your money. So, no."

He'd been on his back, legs thrown over the arm of his couch, when you'd tried handing the money back to him. He looks up at you with his stupid blue eyes, blinking a few times. "It's Christmas. Keep it."

You gently bat his hand away when he goes to hand you the money again. "I told you I don't want it, Dallon."

"What if I want you to have it?" He whines a little bit and, alright, that really shouldn't be could.

He's still not changing your mind, though. "I still don't want it. We're at a stalemate here."

After five minutes or so of bickering and convincing (on his end) you finally take the money from his hand, then force him to make eye contact with you by grabbing his chin, then saying, "I'm paying you back, and _do not_ argue with me."

 

Your gifts to him aren't anything special, at least in your eyes. You couldn't really afford much, because living in New York is expensive, and since Starbucks isn't that Lucrative, despite the two or three hundred extra dollars you get from Dallon's fucking tips.

He doesn't seem to care about the price tag on the presents, though, which you're glad about. He still smiles at you shyly when he sees a box of chocolates (not Valentine's; just a general box of them) and laughs and hugs you when his eyes catch sight of the small stuffed bear with a Santa had that you'd found at a second hand store.

He does kiss you in a super romantic way when he reads the note you'd written for him in the card, and then hugs you. The note was just about as sentimental and as overly sappy as the one he'd written for you, but apparently he had a stronger response to it than you had to his.

You also have to take a moment to realize that the two of you are literally disgusting, as far as cuteness goes, but you really like this guy, alright?

 

After sharing a moderately romantic dinner with him, you settle back onto the couch with him, and things get _heated._ Kind of. Okay, they do, but you have a corny way of phrasing things, so you like to backtrack a lot.

Point is, it's _the usual,_ except the only difference is that the two of you are at his house for once, and instead of bad sitcoms on Netflix playing for background noise through the tinny speakers of your secondhand flats screen, it's tasteful, slow, and obscure classic rock. You like it better than Netflix, honestly. It's kind of hard to get it on to That 70's Show.

It's getting close to the point where he usually cuts it off because he doesn't deem it appropriate to go any further than kissing. (Well, you think it's more like he isn't overly comfortable with getting sexual, and you're not going to complain about it or pressure him. You think he might just be scared, but you don't want to jump to conclusions, and, to reiterate, you don't want to pressure him.)

When he pulls away, you're figuring he's going to cut it off, but he doesn't. Instead, his lips are close to your ear, and he's asking you if he can suck you off. You laugh, out of shock, mostly at his bluntness, and how _not_ smooth he is. "Are you sure, babe? You're usually running off to the bathroom to take care of yourself by now."

He groans as he rests his face against your shoulder, trying to subtly move his hips against yours a bit as he adjusts his position. He sort of needs to pick up on how subtlety actually works. Like he said, he's kind of like a teenager. You're not one to talk, since you've only been free of the teenager status for eight months, but you're far more experienced in the art of guy-on-guy sex.

"I've been too nervous to bring it up, so can you spare me the embarrassment, you shithead?"

"I love the pet names, Dallon."

He nips at your neck. "Answer me."

"If you're sure about it, then go for it. Do you think I'm going to turn down getting my dick sucked?"

"I don't know, man. You're weird. Am I supposed to know better?"

You scoff, and roll your eyes as you sit up. "Fuck off, man. You're the weird one."

"The weird one who is about to suck you off." He gives you a pointed look.

And you huff because, hey--he has a point.

"Just... don't, like... make fun of me or anything."

"Why would I?"

"I haven't ever given anyone a blow job before," He admits.

You're not surprised. "I won't make fun of you for that, man." You lean forward to kiss him, and he melts. It's cute.

"I've received plenty of blow jobs," He starts as he's sinking to his knees in front of the couch, "so I get the idea of it, but if there's a way to fuck up a blow job, I'm going to be the one to do it."

"It's not too bad," you mumble as he's unbuckling your belt. "Just be glad my dick isn't huge." You lift your hips up a bit once your jeans are unbuttoned and unzipped and once he has a grip on your pants and your briefs so they can be pulled to about the middle of your thighs.

And that's about when he stops dead in his tracks. You feel exposed and vulnerable and you kind of wish he'd quit fucking staring at you. "What do I do now?"

"Try your best...? I can't exactly use words to describe how you suck a dick. It's something you learn by trial and error, _trust me."_

He lets out a puff of breath. "Do I just go for it?"

"Honestly? Yeah. It's not _that_ hard."

He raises his eyebrows, glances to your dick, then back up to your eyes.

"Shut up. That's not what I meant."

He chuckles and then he's leaning forward a little bit, one hand wrapping around your cock, aaand you flinch, because his hands are cold "Wait, was that not okay?"

"You're hands are cold, dude."

"Oh, _uh._ Maybe they'll... warm up? I'm nervous."

You run a hand through his hair and tell him not to sweat it.

He carefully licks the tip after that, then he's sitting back up, face perplexed. "Huh. It doesn't really taste like anything."

"Um... thanks?"

"I thought dicks were supposed to taste like something," he defends himself as he's bending back down, taking the head of your cock into his mouth, taking his sweet time _teasing_ you before he's slowly sinking down until his nose is brushing against your pubes. He pulls off to give you some more commentary. "That wasn't as difficult as I thought it was going to be."

"Dude, here's a blow job tip: Save your commentary for your blog post, or for after I bust my load, alright?"

He sticks his tongue out, but gets back to it.

His lips were pretty in the first place, but they look better, swollen and red, wrapped around your cock, as he's bobbing his head up and down. He's playing with your balls a little bit too, and, you'll be honest--that's one of the things that gets you worked up the most.

Your hands end up in his hair, and when you accidentally pull it, you're apologizing, but he pulls off for a second just to say, "Keep doing that," and you're sort of surprised you didn't bust your load right then and there, especially when he's just flat out moaning around you.

He's so hot. He's so fucking hot that it's ridiculous. You only last a few more minutes until you're spilling into his mouth, and you almost come again, because, apparently, he swallows, and he's _really_ provocative and obscene about it.

(You give him the blow job of his life in exchange, or so he tells you. You're a little cocky, so to speak, about your dick sucking skills.

\---

Josh throws the New Year's party. He's a mysterious guy, and you're not sure what he or his mysterious boyfriend do for a job, but whatever the hell it is, they're fucking loaded. Not, like, _that_ loaded, but they live in a super nice house, and you're a little jealous.

(Tyler isn't there again. Josh tells you he's in Columbus visiting family.)

 

You stand off to the side with Dallon for a good portion of the night, sipping at glasses of champagne, chatting with him. He's a little nervous, mostly since he doesn't know any of yours or Josh's friends, and you try to tell him to think of them like chihuahuas. They can growl and bark and seem like Satan incarnated, but they're virtually harmless. "They're all pushovers, and they like you anyways."

"Wait, really?"

"Of course. You're super nice, you're handsome, and you buy us food and alcohol. They _like_ you."

He gets you in the bicep with his elbow. "You only like me because of the takeout and the booze, don't you?"

"Yes, Dallon, that's _exactly_ why I introduced you to the most important people in my life, and that's _exactly_ why I brought you as my plus one to this party. It's all because I'm angling for rice and booze."

He rolls his eyes and pecks you on the lips.

 

Around eleven thirty, most everyone is either stoned or drunk, or a combination of the two. (It's a little hectic, since Josh has provided two different strains of weed for the party, and since you're the dumb ass who accidentally tried both, along with the champagne.)

The point is that you're bored, you're inebriated, and you thought everyone was distracted by someone (Josh) standing on their coffee table, without a shirt, preaching about taxes. The odd one out, as usual, was Pete, since he pays attention to _everything._

You were just minding your own business, kissing your not official boyfriend, figuring no one was paying attention, or that no one even cared, up until Brendon's calling you out, saying, "Brendon, dude! It isn't midnight yet!"

Your eyes snap open, and they're darting to the left to give Pete a dirty look before you're detaching yourself from Dallon, who has his hands over his face, sighing. At this point, everyone else in the room is staring at the two of you and trying not to laugh and you sort of want to die.

Sometimes you hate Pete.


	6. Chapter 6

January 17th, 2013, is one of, if not the shittiest day of your life.

Some days you wake up in a mood. Like, the kind of mood to where you bust out the eyeliner and the black nail polish. You don't have those days very often, but January 17th, 2013, is one of those days. You thought your fingernails looked cool, and you look pretty alright with some good ol' eyeliner, so you just... did what you want. It's how you express yourself. (Also, you always have at least a little bit of make up on anyways, because, like, let's be real--your cheekbones and your eyebrows aren't _that_ great.)

Given that you also busted out one of your favorite pairs of skinny jeans, along with a cardigan, you aren't really surprised that it happened. You screamed gay from miles away. (You're not gay, though.) You're also not saying you deserved this, because you didn't, but you're still not surprised.

Pete had to leave work early for something important, which left you alone in the Starbucks to clean up. It took longer since it was just you who was there, meaning you didn't get to start walking towards the parking garage you kept your car in until it was dark out.

The Starbucks also happens to be in a fairly secluded and not that busy part of New York, so when you see a group of drunk men heading towards you with no one else around, your heart drops into your stomach.

Your memory of that night is pretty spotty after you're getting shoved against a wall, and all you know is that three men jumped you, and that you ended up with a broken wrist, a bunch of shattered bones in your hand, and a few broken fingers, three cracked ribs and four bruised ones, then a dislocated shoulder and a hyper-extended elbow. Another plus is that you also end up with a concussion.

You cradle your left arm against your chest while you call 911, and while you're waiting for an ambulance for _half of an hour,_ you try calling four people.

First, you call Pete. He doesn't answer his phone, and you kind of want to kill him. Next, you try calling Patrick, to get Pete's attention, but he doesn't answer either, and then you call Josh, because, hey, he's a nice guy, but the third time isn't the charm, and he doesn't pick up either, so you're left with Dallon. You hate calling him after ten, since that's when he goes to bed, but he's the only other person you're close enough with to call, and, like, the situation is pretty dire, so you figure he's not going to be mad.

You mostly babble out a bunch of nonsense, but Dallon gets the gist of what you were trying to say, and what had happened.

\---

The next thing you know you're waking up in a hospital bed. There's a cast on your left hand all the way up to your elbow, and IVs sticking out of your right hand. Your chest hurts like a bitch, and you try sitting up, but you fail. Miserably.

You see Dallon sitting in a chair with his fingers crossed in front of him, head tilted back, sleeping, and you manage to wake him up with a mostly delicate kick to the thigh. He jumps, and says, _"Fuck,"_ under his breath before asking you if you'd like him to go get a doctor. He looks _exhausted_ and you feel bad.

"No, not yet. What happened, why am I here, and why are _you_ here?"

He rubs his forehead. "You got the snot kicked out of you, basically. You've been in and out of it for the past few days. Uh. Your hand," he gestures towards his own left forearm and hand, and you look to yours before looking back to his face. "A bunch of the bones in your hand and wrist were broken, and you had to have surgery on it." He lists a few other things that'd happened to you, and you just cringe, before finally allowing him to go grab a doctor.

When the doctor is in the room, you ask how much this little stint is going to cost, and when the words, "If I had to estimate, I'd say around fifty to seventy five grant," leaves his mouth, you almost faint.

Dallon takes one look at you before saying, "I'll pay for it." When you go to protest once the doctor leaves the room (after checking on you) he says, "Swallow your fucking pride and let me do this. It's either _I_ do this, or you're dick deep in debt for the foreseeable future."

You don't argue after that. Hell, you can't afford to.

 

A few police officers question you, but it doesn't do anything, if you're honest.

You get questions along the lines of, "What were you wearing?" or, "What time was it?" and a bunch of other questions about shit that doesn't even matter. Whenever you would answer questions that _did_ matter, though, you'd get a condescending look or some noise of acknowledgment that made it sound like they didn't quite believe you.

You end up shutting down and not answering them properly. Everything hurts; you don't have the time for homophobic pigs.

 

You get released from the hospital about a week later, and instead of just taking you back to your apartment like you expected, Dallon just takes you to his house. You don't protest, because you kind of feel safer/better being at his house instead of your apartment. (He lives in a nice neighborhood. There's not much more to it than that.)

You're still hopped up on pain medications from the hospital, but you're still aching, and it takes about five minutes before you're actually inside of his house once you're out of the car in his garage. He has to help you walk and it's actually super embarrassing to you. You apologize a whole bunch but he just shushes you.

His living room is the closest to his garage, so he leads you there, and helps you get situated on the couch, hopefully temporarily before asking, "Are you alright if I leave for maybe an hour?"

No, it's not alright, at least not right now, but you just ask, "Why?"

"The doctor at the hospital wrote out a prescription for Vicodin, and I figured getting it sooner rather than later would be optimal. Also, uh... Do you want to go back to your apartment, or are you alright with being here?"

It takes you a few moments to process what he'd said, and to form an answer. "I'm okay with being here. Could you... can you get a few things from my apartment?"

"I could, but that would take at least an extra few hours or so since New York is an hour from here." He looks apologetic.

"I'm okay with that, but can I--can I at least lay somewhere more comfortable?"

"Of course. Uh. Do you think you could get up the stairs?"

You shrug. You don't know, but you figure it couldn't hurt to try. (Unless you fell down them or something.) Dallon helps you stand up, and keeps one of his hands on your back, since that's about the only place he can touch you without hurting you.

You grip the stair rail tightly with your right hand, and you have to keep your posture straight to avoid jostling your ribs, or your left arm, which is in a sling. When you're finally at the top of the stairs, you head to the room you usually sleep in, but Dallon grabs your shoulder that wasn't dislocated, saying, "My room. There's memory foam and really good pillows in there."

You sit on the edge of the bed and take a minute to catch your breath. Dallon awkwardly stands in front of you, waiting for you to say something. You end up asking, "Can you help me out of my clothes?" You feel pathetic. "And can I borrow sweatpants and a shirt or something? That'd be nice. God, fuck, I'm so sorry about this. I'm so sorry." You wipe at your eyes with your right hand.

Dallon crouches down in front of you. "Hey, Brendon, look at me." You look into his eyes, and, man, you hate that look on his face. It's not a bad look, but it's one of those looks that makes you realize that he's a good person. "Don't be sorry. Gotta do what you gotta do, y'know?"

All you can do is nod in agreement before he's walking around his room, finding a t-shirt that's way too big for you, and a pair of sweatpants that look too small for him. He's gentle as he undoes the sling your arm is in, and as he's helping you peel your shirt and your jeans off.

He winces when he sees the bruises littering your body, but doesn't say anything, because he's helping you into the sweatpants, then he's asking you to hold your arms up as best as you can so he can slide the oversized t-shirt on.

He sits down next to you on the bed, and asks, "What all do you want from your apartment?"

You rack your foggy brain for a few moments. "Laptop, laptop charger... Phone charger, ear buds, and a few changes of clothes. And, uh, possibly my duvet. Please."

"Do you need anything else before I leave...?"

You think again, but you shake your head. You kind of just want to sleep, honesty. You even need help laying down, which fucking sucks, but once you're laying down, you feel a lot better, honestly. He tugs his duvet up and over your body, and makes sure the pillows under your head aren't going to hurt your neck or kink it or anything. "Uh, also..." He grabs the remote to the TV in his room, and places it on the side table on the side of the bed you're on. "I've got DirectTV, like, every channel, except the porn ones, so if you want to watch something, then feel free. There's--there's also a Netflix app on the TV, so if you want to use your Netflix account or something... then y'know."

He's so awkward but so nice and you just nod before waving him off.

 

You fall asleep and only wake up when he's nudging you awake at some point. It was light out when he left, but it's dark now. He has your duvet over one of his arms, and the case you put your laptop in hanging off of his shoulder. "I have everything you asked for, plus the prescription. I--I put your clothes over there." He points towards a laundry basket that was previously empty.

You nod, then you roll onto your stomach. You don't fall back asleep immediately, since he drags an air mattress into the room, and spends five minutes blowing it up. He's only using the air mattress since he doesn't want to risk jostling you from tossing and turning. After it's quiet again, though, you're out like a light, only waking up a few times from moving wrong.

 

The next morning when you wake up, he's sitting Indian-style on the air mattress, going between watching you and watching something on his laptop. He doesn't freak out, or make a big deal out of you waking up. All he does is take his headphones off to say, "Hey."

You try saying something, but nothing comes out of your mouth for a while. "Can I have some water...?"

He just nods and gets up to leave the room. He comes back with a few pills in his hand, and a bottle of water that you assume he'd already opened for you. "It's just the Vicodin. Uh. The doctor at the hospital wants to see you again on the thirty first." After that, he rattles off a list of things to tell him about were they to happen to you, since they'd warrant an emergency room visit.

You just nod meekly, saying, "Alright," before popping the pills, and downing about half of the water bottle. He's helping you stand up after that so you can walk over to the bathroom to, y'know, relieve yourself.

 

A few weeks pass, and Dallon retires the air mattress since your ribs are starting to heal, and since it doesn't hurt quite as much to have a second perso nin the bed. You feel terrible about sleeping in his bed. You've never really been too big on sharing a bed with someone, and you think if someone younger than you were to just show up and hog your bed, you'd be annoyed, but, hey, Dallon's a nice guy.

You end up losing your little attitude about sharing beds with someone, though, after another week or two. You start jerking awake every few hours, drenched in sweat and either on the verge of having a panic attack, or in the middle of one, almost always after a nightmare. Dallon somehow manages to wake up almost every time that you do, and here's there to hold you and tell you that it's going to be alright, and that you're safe. You trust him, of course. He makes you feel safe and he's already gone out of his way to make sure you're alright, and, yeah, your relationship with him definitely isn't going to be a one or two month fling. (Well, you've sort of been seeing him for six months now, but still.)

This situation feels so _dumb_ to you. You feel so fucking helpless. You're the kind of guy who solves everyone else's problems, and you hate that you can't solve your own problems right now. You know life just _happens,_ but sometimes it's fucking shitty and you hate it.

There's one night, sometime in the beginning of March, you think, where you wake up, sniffling, and Dallon tugs you over as gently as he can and holds you against his chest, shushing you, before he starts quietly singing the lyrics to a queen song that you can't remember the title to right now.

You start giggling in that pathetic sort of way that people laugh whenever they're crying when he starts singing, _"I can dim the lights and sing you songs full of sad things,"_ because the song is corny and because he's being super sweet and super gay. You can feel the grin in his voice as he continues.

Honestly, he has a pretty good singing voice, and it wouldn't surprise you if there's an alternate universe where he has a career in music. Hell, he isn't even trying his _best_ but he's still great.

 

Dallon drives you to what's becoming your regular hospital during the second week of March so you can get your cast taken off and your hand x-rayed. You already know there's something wrong with your hand, but you figured it's just side effects from the surgery or something, so you don't say anything to your doctor.

You're sitting in an exam room, Indian style, on the exam table while the doctor is looking at the x-rays on a screen. He makes a noise that's concerning. It's a bit of a hissing noise and he's frowning.

It's a theme as of late. A theme that things go wrong in your life for no reason with no explanation. "Spare me the bullshit. What's wrong?"

He points at a few places in your hand and your wrist on the x-ray. You don't know what you're supposed to be looking at, but he explains that your bones shouldn't be looking like that. What he means is that they healed wrong, and that they didn't catch it in time for it to be fixed easily.

He asks you how your hand feels, and you shrug. "The side of my hand is numb, so are my ring and pinky fingers. It's been like that since the surgery, I guess."

He rolls over in his stupid fucking swivel chair and takes your hand in his, moving it certain ways. He tries bending your fingers down, and you yank your hand away, saying, _"Fuck,_ watch it."

He asks you to try moving it on your own, and the most you can really do is wiggle your fingers a _very_ little bit. You can't really bend your wrist either without more than minimal effort.

You're told that, along with bones not healing right, you have nerve damage in your left hand and wrist. You're told that the damage could've been a lot worse, and you almost slap him.

Dallon's in the room with you, and he asks, "Why did the bones heal wrong?"

The doctor looks between the two of you, and doesn't give a solid answer, so you figure it was a fuck up on his part, since he was the surgeon that'd worked on your hand.

Dallon offers to provide you with the means to sue the hospital, and the doctor, for malpractice, but you turn the offer down. You just want to be done with this part of your life, and to go on as normally as you can.

 

You decide that the last week of March is the week you're going to go back. You sit down on your couch, breathing deeply, and you ask Dallon if he could go grab your mail for you. He enthusiastically agrees, of course, and kisses you on the cheek before heading out.

He comes back with a pretty good sized stack of bills. You know he's been covering your rent and bills for you since you haven't been working, or able to do it yourself, so you just sort all of those out into a different pile, junk mail into another, then other things into a third pile. You're about half way through the entire stack altogether though when you see an eviction notice.

You put everything else down, and tear that envelope open. You skim it, then you're saying, "Uh, Dallon? I'm... I'm being evicted." It'd been issued the first week of March.

He'd been in your kitchen, taking a few cartons of takeout out of a paper bag, trying to figure out which one of them belonged to either of you when you'd said that. "Pardon?"

You wave the letter in the air. "I have five days to get out of here."

Dallon marches over, and takes the letter from you. He skims it, then asks, "Do you have a lease?"

You shake your head. "No, I don't. I mean... These apartments aren't the best in the first place, and I couldn't afford much when I moved out on my own, not to mention a lease. I just payed my rent month to month, and prayed this wouldn't happen I guess. Fuck."

He sighs and the frown that'd been on his face frowns a bit before he's sitting down on the floor in front of the couch so he can look up at you with his stupid blue eyes.

"I guess I'll go talk to Pete or something. I mean, it's cramped enough as it is without me being there, but I don't know what else to do." You let your head fall back so you can scrub your right hand down your face.

"Or, we could get a few boxes, pack the rest of your things, and just go back to my house. Most of your clothes and belongings are there anyways, Brendon." You really want to argue with him, but you can't afford to. You literally can't. Of course, that fact doesn't stop you.

"I can't ask that from you."

"Who said you're asking?" He hold your right hand in his, and kisses your knuckles once before continuing "I have four extra bedrooms, and I live in a gated neighborhood. It's not too much of a stretch to have an extra person around. Also, I have, like, really good internet. It's an offer that you can't pass up. Like, you get to stay in a nice house with a built-in still not official boyfriend and good internet. Not everyone gets a built-in not official boyfriend."

You manage a weak laugh, and you get him in the side with one of your sock covered feet.

"Also, I can cook. You get a built-in, not official boyfriend who can cook, and, I'll even sweeten the offer--a built-in unofficial boyfriend who can cook, and who has a master's in economics who is willing to help you with your economics homework."

He knows you're planning to drop out within the next few weeks, but he's trying, so you indulge him. "I mean, I am pretty bad at economics..."

"Perfect. I see no reason to argue." His eyebrows are raised, and he's definitely trying to fight off one of his dumb grins. "On a serious note, you should just come home with me. I have the room, I can afford it, and you've pretty much been living there anyways for the past two months. It'll be like that, but permanent, I guess."

It doesn't take him much more convincing before you're saying, "Alright." (This also goes without saying, but you lost your job at Starbucks as well. You only had a week of vacation time, and even despite having nerve damage in your left hand, taking two months off was going to be a bit of a stretch, so you figured quitting would've been easier rather than getting fired.)


	7. Chapter 7

Sometime mid-April you're pacing around Dallon's patio, ranting and raving, thanking the lord he's actually willing ot listen to you. You're also smoking pot, in an attempt to keep calm. You're not smoking a _lot,_ mostly since this specific strain makes you hallucinate if you have too much, and given that, as of late, your hallucinations have gone from silly and fun things to dark and scary things.

"I don't even know what to do with my life!" You exclaim as you kick a pebble into the lawn.

"Just do what you want to do," he says, as if it's that simple.

"That's the thing, _Dallon._ I don't _know_ what I want to do. I'm up to my fucking dick in debt because I dropped out, and, the best part is--I have _nothing_ to fall back on. I had no other career choices in mind; I just figured I'd get a degree in something sensible, then go from there. Y'know, I even wanted to be a musician at some point, but _that's_ off the fucking table because my _hand,"_ you hold your left hand up, and gesture to it with your right hand, "didn't _heal_ right, and has nerve damage, meaning I have a limited range of motion with it. _Fuck,_ I even wanted to go into cosmetology at some point too, but I'm pretty sure I can't do _that_ with a gimp hand."

"You're still in physical therapy and you're going to be in physical therapy for the foreseeable future. There's a chance it could get better." He's trying to use one of his intimidating businessman poses with you, and you almost roll your eyes. He knows using his professional demeanor never works on you. His bullshit is the easiest bullshit to see through.

"Oh, save me the uplifting bullshit, Dallon. You can't just _fix_ bones that didn't heal right, and you can't just _fix_ nerve damage. I just--I'm fucking _done._ I can't do _anything."_ You feel sort of bad for some of the shit you've been saying. Dallon has spent a _mint_ on you and your medical bills, and he's paying off your debt as well, but you're just--you're so frustrated and tired. The little shits who did this to you--they ruined your _life._

"Listen, at least you're not left handed," He tries to reason. You know he doesn't know how to comfort you, and that's alright, and, okay, his comment does draw a bit of a huff out of you, but he's still not helping a whole lot. He knows that. You don't tell him this, though.

\---

Conveniently, things in your life pick up a week later. There's this gossip rag that keeps everyone up to date on who's out, and it's the kind of gossip rag that helps show that queer people are normal, just like everyone else.

The gossip rag had caught wind of Dallon divorcing his wife and 'coming out of the closet.' (He didn't necessarily come out, but he doesn't hide it.) The gossip rag had also caught wind of you being the victim of a hate crime, which meant that either of you were both candidates for interesting articles.

There's a 'photo shoot.' By that, you mean either of you end up in an amateur studio with one of the photographers for the gossip rag taking a few pictures of either of you.

The articles come out surprisingly well, and you're pretty hyped about them. This next part is to be expected, honestly, but either of you receive a lot of unsolicited comments and attention via various forms of social media. (Actually, you do. Dallon only has an Instagram account, and it's private anyways. You, one of his coworkers, Kenny, you think, Pete, Josh, and Patrick are the only ones who follow him.)

Most of them are just snide and inane comments about the age difference between the two of you, or about how Dallon's a millionaire and you're literally just some kid from a dumpy part of New York. (You try correcting people, saying you're actually from the suburbs of Las Vegas, but no one listens.)

On top of all that, though, Dallon gets a bunch of shit tossed his way about him being a predator, since you're so _young,_ as if you're not a consenting adult. Either of you were already aware of the fact that there was going to be a maturity difference between either of you, and given you've been in an abusive relationship before, you know what to look for, and, so far, your relationship with him is perfectly healthy. (Well, no relationship is perfect, but the two of you work well together.)

You get to a point to where you can't even look at your notifications on Twitter or Tumblr without wanting to kill either yourself or someone else.

Sometime in June is when you meet someone who is possibly the biggest asshole you've ever met. Okay, he's not actually an asshole, but he's stubborn and hes a bit of a hard ass.

You'd confided in Dallon after getting an onslaught of emails to your business email from modeling agencies wanting to hire you, and after making a few calls, he'd essentially hooked you up with a manager-slash-talent representative.

He's a little... weird. He's a little taller than you are, give or take, and he's lanky. Like you said, he's an asshole, but he gets his paperwork done and he's good at his job, like, really good, so you're able to tolerate him.

\---

"So, for this," Tyler's sliding a packet of papers stapled together, "you're going to have to travel to Italy, but I think you should do it. Well, actually, I'm not really giving you a choice. The point of this is that this magazine is _very_ popular, in Italy at least, and if you wanted a career in modeling, then you, sir, have got one." He jots a few things down in a notebook, then looks up at you again. "Alright?"

"I can't, like, go alone, or I would, man... I don't know Italian and I have no idea on how to navigate a foreign country." You're rambling and fidgeting a little bit, running your fingers over the scar on your wrist.

"You're acting as if I wouldn't go with you." He's squinting, and looking genuinely confused. "You're basically an infant, you're going to need someone to translate, and, no offense, but I don't trust you alone in Europe."

"True, thanks, and none taken. My responses, respectively."

\---

You decide that aside from being an asshole, Tyler Joseph is quite possibly one of the weirdest people you've met. Usually, if you're going to be on an airplane for long periods of time, you'd wear something casual, not fucking _Prada._ Hell, even _Dallon,_ who rarely dresses down for _anything_ wouldn't pull this shit.

"Tyler? You do realize we're going to be on this flight for, like, eight hours, right?" You're asking the second he shows up at the house to retrieve you.

He just shrugs, muttering, "Gotta compensate for my lack of muscle mass somehow," as you're following him to his car.

You scoff at him a bit.

\---

You share a hotel room with Tyler in Italy. You can't fall asleep right away, since you're sort of not used to sleeping in a bed alone, so you check your emails to see one you'd gotten from Dallon some time during your flight.

 

**Dallon Weekes** _dlwks@aol.com_

**Subject:** No Subject

_"Hi! Sorry I wasn't able to see you off or say bye or anything. I have a job and all. Be safe & try to have fun! :D (I'd say 'I love you' or something, but we're still not even officially and item, so I'm going to save that for a better and more romantic time. Preferably one that isn't an email. I hope you appreciate the sentiment though.)"_

 

You're left smiling to yourself stupidly. You love Dallon a lot. Like, you'll admit that to yourself, even if you haven't said it to his face yet. You take a screenshot of the email and put it into a folder of things you look at whenever you're not doing too hot.

\---

You have two days to fix your sleeping patterns before you're scheduled for a photo-shoot. You also decide that you hate Tyler Joseph on the third day of the trip, because when his alarm goes off at four in the fucking morning, he gives you three chances to get up before grabbing your feet and _dragging_ you out of the bed. You give him the dirtiest look you can muster.

You take a shower, and when you're going to fill your eyebrows in, Tyler _literally_ slaps your hand, saying, _"Do not_ wear any make up. There's people there who will do that for you, and they're much better at it than you are." You just take a deep breath, and mentally recite the serenity prayer to yourself.

Exhaustion doesn't even com close to how you feel by the time you're in some building with a bunch of make up artists and assistants flitting around you and never leaving you alone. You're getting paid pretty decently for this, so you're dealing, but it's still exhausting.

There's make up caked onto your face, because, apparently, it looks natural, and there's clothes pinned into place on your body, making it look as if they fit perfectly, whereas they don't.

Modeling is different than you thought it was. You thought you would just go in, put on an outfit, snap a few pictures, then leave, but, no, you're there for about ten hours, doing so many things that you can't even list them all without your brain exploding.

Your skin is crawling at the way everyone is watching you. You're half tempted to shout at them, to tell them to quit being so creepy about staring, but you think better of it. You don't know Tyler personally, but from how Josh has described him, and from what you've seen in the past few days, you really don't want to test him. He's kind of scary.

(It didn't take long for you and Tyler to figure out who either of you were within a week of meeting. Of course, both of you agreed not to tell Josh, or anyone else, aside from Dallon, in favor of letting them all figure it out for themselves, in hopes that it would provide some... humorous moments.)

You get an email a few days after the photo shoot, containing all of the photos, so you forward it to Dallon, since you're pretty fucking excited, and after he calls you gorgeous, you go red in the face and tell him to knock it off.

(He doesn't knock it off, by the way.)

\---

Once you're back home, you get maybe a few days to relax before you get a text message from your mother. She's tried talking to you a few times since you were kicked out, but you've never replied to her, but this time you do.

She asks you if you want to visit for a week or two during July, since her and your father are hosting a barbecue this year, and since she wants to start working on patching up the relationship the two of you have which, at this point, seems pretty unlikely. You're still bitter about being kicked out at seventeen.

You get asked if you have a girlfriend at some point in the conversation, and after you get done rolling your eyes, you reply with, "Something like that." She suggests that you bring _her_ with you, since it'd be fun.

\---

Getting kicked out was possible one of the best times of your life. (That's a lie. Next to the January incident, getting kicked out was possibly one of the worst things that's happened to you.)

If anyone remembers the shitty boyfriend you mentioned to Dallon a few months after meeting him, then, well--that _asshole_ has a lot to do with this story. You're not naming any names, but that guy outed you to your parents.

You have no idea how he actually did it, but you know why. It starts with an 'r.' Revenge.

Revenge for what? You still aren't too sure. Probably has to do with the fact that you broke up with him. He was the kind of guy who had you wrapped around his little finger, manipulating you and bending you to his will, as horribly corny as that sounds.

He's an abusive piece of shit. Your relationship with him was abusive and it was a pretty dark period in your life. He was never physically abusive, but he did threaten you with violence a lot, and he chipped away at your self esteem until you thought you deserved to be treated like that. (He chipped away at your self esteem enough to where you developed an eating disorder and crippling self esteem issues. You've mostly recovered from the eating disorder, though, aside from a few nasty habits you haven't _quite_ dropped yet, but what's important is that you tried, alright?)

You'd swiped a bottle of mint schnapps from your dad's liquor cabinet, since you know he hates schnapps, and you'd drank, like, half of the damn bottle, and you figured it'd be such a _wise_ idea to call _Josh,_ of all people, in the middle of the damn night to cry about the shitty boyfriend.

Okay, it's not that you were crying, but it's more like you were really upset about him forcing you to cut ties with another friend of yours. (You kept your online friends under wraps around him, just in case.)

It does end up being a wise idea, in a way, because Josh, lovingly, chewed you a new asshole. Okay, _okay,_ he didn't chew you a new asshole, but he was blunt with you, and didn't beat around the bush, which was something you needed at the time. He gave you a long winded rant, talking to you about abusive relationships, and he ended the rant with, "You need to dump him."

You debated on it for a few days before you did. You dumped him, and he was livid, but, hey, he was some punk ass seventeen year old, just like you, so it wasn't like he could do any harm, right?

Ha, wrong.

He fucked your life up. (In hindsight, you're kind of glad he went out of his way to out you, because, hey, you met Dallon in New York, but at the time it seemed like the end of the world.)

A few days after dumping him, after you get home from school, your parents sit you down at the dining table for a 'family meeting.' Your mother asks, "Brendon, are you gay?"

You answer her truthfully. "No, I'm not." Because you're not. You're not gay. You're not straight either, and you're not bisexual. Future Brendon knows what you are, knows that you're pansexual, but Present Brendon doesn't know yet. Present Brendon is also going to get back to telling the story.

Your mother asks, "Do you have a boyfriend?"

You give her another truthful answer. "No."

And then your dad seems to outsmart you. "Are you straight?"

You know that if you said, "Yes," they wouldn't believe you, but you didn't think that saying, "No," would've had the consequences that it'd had.

They don't say anything for awhile, but when you try to get up so you can do your homework, your dad uses his intimidating dad voice to say, "Brendon, sit back down."

You do. You sit back down, and you can feel yourself going rigid. Your mother rephrases the boyfriend question. _"Did_ you have a boyfriend?"

You had a suspicion that they knew, because parents just... Parents know things. "Yes, I did."

You weren't quite expecting the next question, but you remember that your parents are devout Mormons, so it doesn't surprise you. "Have you... had _sex_ with... _him?"_

You just give them another honest answer. You tell them that you did have sex with him. At that point in your life, you'd slept with at least half of your school. Hell, you even fucked a teacher one time. (You'll get into that at a later point.)

Things escalate, your mother cries, Dad yells, you yell back, the two of you get into a shouting match, and you're given an ultimatum: Give up your disgusting lifestyle and start going to church again to repent for your sins, or pack your things and be out by the end of the week.

This was the kind of things that you always saw in movies or read in books, and not in real life. You didn't think parents actually did that, let alone yours. Depending on when in your life you were to look back on this, you'd say that they thought they were doing what was best for you, but that's a Future Brendon kind of thing to say. Present Brendon thinks your parents are assholes, and will do everything in his power to spite him. As far as Present Brendon is concerned right now, Future Brendon can stick his wisdom and logical solutions up his ass.

Anyways, it takes you about an hour to pack a suitcase with your clothes, and then it takes another hour to walk to Spencer's house so you can call someone else for help. (You love Spencer like a brother, and the two of you are great friends and all, but asking his parents if you could stay with them until you either graduated, got a GED, or got emancipated was a little much.)

You talk to a few people before you end up calling Pete. Pete's the kind of guy who would die for you if he could. He's a good friend, loyal to a fault, and you probably owe him your life.

Like you said at some point way early in the story, he took you in when you had no place to go. He offered you a place to sleep, and kept you fed for the two years you lived with him.

He's also the kind of guy who managed to scrape up the money for a one-way plane ticket to New York.

In hindsight, flying to New York to live with someone that you'd only talked to over MSN, and someone you'd only spoken with on the phone a handful of times was sort of a dumb decision, but it worked out. You're _really_ lucky it worked out.

Anyways, yadda yadda, your life goes on, and the story resumes itself sometime in June of 2013.

\---

Dallon gets home from work at the same time he usually does, around six, and you're by the front door when he's finally there. He slowly closes the door, eyes never leaving you as he's kicking his shoes off. "Did I do something...? I usually only get looks like that from people when I've done something."

"No, but you're going to."

"What do you mean?" He asks as he walks towards the stairs.

You tail him pretty closely until the two of you are in the bedroom. You sit in the chair in front of the desk, watching him as he's changing out of his work clothes. "Do you want to go to Las Vegas with me for the fourth?"

"Is there any reason?"

"My parents are hosting a barbecue, invited me, and they kind of think I have a girlfriend. I figured this would be a good chance to piss them off, and to also remind them that I'm not straight and that they need to quit assuming or forcing their beliefs onto me."

"So, you figure that showing up with a man seven years your senior will piss them off, considering they think you have a girlfriend, and _not_ a boyfriend?" He subtly raises his eyebrows at you for a split second before smirking, and, okay, it just hit you again that he is so, _so_ gorgeous.

"Basically, yeah. I get some sick sense of satisfaction out of stuff like this."

"Luckily for you, I'm kind of an asshole, and I'm always up for putting people in their place."

You grin. "You really must be the one."

He snorts and laughs a bit before he's taking his underwear off, grabbing a towel from a basket, and heading towards the master bathroom. You make a remark about him looking hot, and he sticks his tongue out at you. "Save the compliments for when I don't smell like a locker room."


	8. Chapter 8

Dallon lets you sleep on his shoulder for most of the flight from New York to Las Vegas, and he politely holds your hand. (Also, you're not sure on why he's denying it, but he slept for part of the flight too. He acts bashful about it when you call him out, and pretends like he doesn't snore.)

You're dying to see your parents' reaction to Dallon starting from the second the plane touches the tarmac at the airport in Las Vegas. You're sure that they're expecting a meek and polite lady, rather than a six foot four twenty eight year old businessman who is dressed head to fucking toe in Armani. (Dallon dryly tells you that he's a label queen when you comment on his clothing choice. He also tells you that despite wanting to help you spite your parents, he still wants to impress them.)

Dallon departs from you to use the restroom, and while hes busy with that, you run into your father, who is apparently the one there to retrieve the two of you. He's worse than your mother when it comes to gay things, so you're just a little concerned. He looks way too pleasant for your liking when he asks, "So, where is she?" with a smile on his face.

"Uh. Using the bathroom. We've been on a plane for the past five-ish hours, so it's understandable, I guess." You make small talk with your father for about ten minutes before you have to text Dallon to ask him where the hell he's at.

 

 **Brendon:** dude are you taking a shit or something

 **Dallon:** No. I'm on the other side of the terminal.

 **Brendon:** omg why

 **Dallon:** As much as I'm dying to piss your parents off, I'm still nervous.

 **Brendon:** don't worry ill protect you

 **Dallon:** You're two feet tall

 **Brendon:** omg just get over here before he gets mad

 

You return your attention to your father again, and you continue to make small talk before there's a hand on your back and a quick kiss being pressed to your cheek. The look on your fathers face is _priceless._ Dallon introduces himself, putting on his charming and charismatic grin.

"I thought you said you had a _girlfriend,"_ your father hisses.

"I never specified, so you can't get mad at me for it." Okay, listen--you're being a brat. You can admit that.

\---

Both you and Dallon get grilled by your parents. You also get a lecture a bout how you're disrespectful, and although you can kind of see where they're coming from, you still don't really get why they're raising such a huge stink about this.

You also know that Dallon is smart, very smart, but it doesn't fully hit you until he's talking to your parents, and shutting them down so fast that you have whiplash. He's a businessman and it's sort of his job to leave no room for argument. If he wasn't good at that, he probably wouldn't be that successful.

He ends his own rant by saying, "Look, I can easily just take Brendon and go back to New York within the next twenty four hours. The two of you need to give him a little credit. He's _trying._ Neither of us _have_ to be here. You're the ones who invited him, so, no offense, but I think it would be wise to stuff your bigoted remarks up your asses. Pardon my French."

Your mother apologizes, meekly, and eventually your parents start asking questions.

Your parents know you're agnostic, so they don't bother with you, but they ask Dallon if he's religious. You know he is, but you didn't really know which religion he actually belonged to. He tells them that, despite being excommunicated by his church, he still identifies himself as a Mormon. He's not overly devout, of course, given he's gay.

You're asked if he's actually your boyfriend, and if you brought him with you to spite them. You tell them that, yes, he's your boyfriend, and that, no, you did not bring him with you to spite them. (Okay, that last part is a lie, because you sort of did, but you don't tell them that.) He's your significant other, and whether or not he was a woman or a man, you would've brought him with you anyways.

Dallon's asked how old he is, and he tells them that he's twenty eight. Your parents start getting on to either of you at this, but you point out that their age difference is even worse, and Dallon just says, "He's free to leave me whenever he wants. I'm not forcing him to be with me, and vice versa."

Dallon's asked about his job, asked if he has a house, and he, of course, answers accordingly. He tells them that he's a stockbroker, and tells them that he has a decent house. You pipe in and say that, by decent, he means that it's probably comparable to a palace. (Not really a palace, but it's definitely the nicest house you've ever been in.)

They ask him about his education, and he says he has a masters in economics. You tell them that you ended up dropping out before they can ask you, but you don't explain why you dropped out.

And, now, exactly what do _you_ do for a job? You explain that you've been dabbling in modeling, and that you're doing alright for yourself. (Mostly you're just doing it to supplement whatever you'd been making at Starbucks and so that you can spend your own money on yourself instead of Dallon's.)

They're being a little hard on Dallon, you decide, when they ask him about his salary. He was apparently expecting that, though, because he gets up to pull pay stubs for the past six months out of his laptop case.

In November, he had been celebrating making his first million, but according to his pay stubs, he's already made upwards of four this year. (When asked about your salary, you say that it's not consistent enough to give them a solid answer, but that you're, again, doing alright.)

And then you're asked the age old question of, "Honey, are you with him for the money?"

You groan. You've had that tossed at you so many times, and it's seriously getting old. You're not, and either of you tell them as much. ("I can't even give him a twenty without him stuffing it back in my face.)

Is he good to you? Extremely.

Are you good to him? He tells them that, yes, you're good to him, then makes a sly remark about you being an angel, which earns him a gentle nudge in the arm.

They ask how long the two of you have been together, and you tell them that you've been with him since September of the previous year, but that you've known him for almost exactly a year, though. (They're still skeptical.)

There's a few more routine questions that they ask before your mother notices that you're messing with your left hand, and rubbing your ring and pinky fingers, since they're numb. They're almost always numb, but sometimes rubbing at them helps. She asks _why_ you're doing that, and you tell her that you have nerve damage in your left hand.

She asks how that happened, and you tell her that your hand got crushed. You refuse to go further into it when they start asking more questions, mostly since you don't want to think about it.

\---

There's a list of things you hate doing, and unbuttoning or buttoning anything (shirts, pants) is slowly climbing to the top of that list. Sometimes you can manage to button things, most times you can't, and today is one of those times. You usually don't have a problem getting your pants buttoned or unbuttoned, but you definitely have problems getting your _shirts_ buttoned.

You spend five minutes trying to get a button on your shirt buttoned before Dallon's stepping over and gently knocking your hands away, quietly saying, "I'll do it." You appreciate the help, but it makes you feel pathetic. You can't really even close your left hand or do much with it in general, and some days it's not too bad, but, like you said, today is one of the bad days.

"I'm sorry about this," you mumble when he's about half way done with unbuttoning your shirt. On top of making you feel pathetic, having to ask someone to help you button and unbutton your shirts is humiliating and degrading, at least to you.

Dallon shushes you and kisses your forehead. "I've already told you a hundred times. It's fine. Please don't worry about it. How's your hand doing in general?"

You hold it up as he's unbuttoning the cuff on your left wrist. "The usual, I guess. Can't really do anything with it, and today is one of the bad days, I guess. It's doing the thing where I can't close it at all, and my fingers aren't moving a whole lot. Also, like, half of my hand is numb, and rubbing it isn't helping."

"Is it hurting at all?"

"Just sore because I keep, y'know, rubbing it, and trying to move. Also, this is off topic, but I don't want to go out for fucking dinner with my parents. I just want to take a nap."

"Just go to the restaurant with them. It'll make them happy, I guess. I mean, I'll be there too, and we could _totally_ be sickeningly adorable in front of them."

You huff. "I think my dad's had enough today. Wouldn't want to risk making him have a coronary." You giggle a little bit before asking Dallon if he can put your suitcase onto your bed and unzip it for you so you can rifle through it and find a shirt. "Blue or black one?"

"Blue. We're in Nevada, and it's in the middle of the summer. You're going to hate yourself if you wear black."

"Fair enough. What are you going to wear?"

"Jeans instead of slacks, for once, and I was planning on stealing one of your t-shirts since I forgot to bring anything casual with me."

"Wow, Dallon, thanks for asking me!" Your tone is dripping with sarcasm, and he just grins and leans over to kiss you. You act disgruntled for a few more seconds before letting yourself melt into the kiss. Dallon is such a superb guy.

"Not a problem, B."

\---

The dinner with your parents is awkward, to say the least. You pick at a sandwich the whole time, trying to decide if it's worth it to risk food poisoning for this sandwich, Dallon's slowly working on getting down a plate of fries and a grilled cheese, your father is watching both of you as he eats a steak, and your mother pulls your tactic of avoiding eye contact as she picks at her own meal. No one really says anything, either.

You do ask your parents what exactly is going to happen on the fourth, and they reiterate that they're hosting a barbecue. You don't know what to say after that, so you just nod, finish your meal, and signal for Dallon to ask for the check.

After the dinner, Dallon does you a favor and takes you with him while he goes shopping for new shirts that aren't formal and won't make him want to kill himself in the summer heat of Nevada. (He ends up at H&M, and you laugh at him, since he's given you shit about shopping there.)

\---

The two of you sit through almost a week of awkward dinners and breakfasts with your parents, disappearing during the day to dick around the city, to shop, and to just... hang out, you guess. Also, sight seeing. Dallon hasn't ever been to Vegas, so you direct him to a few cool places to check out. (The fact that he's never been to Vegas surprises you, since, apparently, he grew up in Salt Lake City.)

The barbecue goes just about as good as you expected it to. Your father is still fucking amazing with the grill, and you eat, like, half of a hamburger before giving Dallon the rest. (You're trying to watch your weight, and to lose a few pounds anyways, since you're having a little trouble getting modeling gigs because you're not at an ideal weight. You also know that Dallon doesn't particularly approve of the losing weight thing, since you're at a healthy weight, but he does understand.)

There's a bunch of nosy neighbors and relatives that ask questions, and, for the most part, you answer them. There's the occasional uncle who asks something crude, rude, and invasive, thinking he's funny, and you usually just drop dry comments followed by a dirty look in response to those questions.

Dallon, for the most part, keeps his mouth shut, mostly in the interest of not pissing off your family on the off chance he could say the wrong thing, or be a little too blunt for everyone's liking. He does sit next to you on the porch swing, though, cracking a few jokes about straight people and tacky fashion choices, as if he's a shining pillar of wise fashion choices himself, and he also tries to get you to place bets on which of your family members are closeted.

His gaydar sucks, honestly. You get that he thinks Greg is gay, because, like, he's definitely the other gay cousin, but Catherine? You can't see it. Also, she's married anyways. Dallon does point out that _he_ was married at some point as well, so you do give him that one.

\---

As you and Dallon are helping your parents clean up after everyone's cleared out of the backyard/house, your parents give either of you looks. They aren't dirty looks, but more or less curious ones.

Dallon isn't catching them, but you are, of course. Every time you ask Dallon to hand you something or to hold something if your hand is giving you trouble, you catch your parents exchanging looks with each other, and eventually you snap and ask them why the _fuck_ they're staring at the two of you.

Your mom tries to hold back a sly grin, before saying, "You're like newlyweds."

You don't know how to react, so you settle on a scoff and a shake of the head before you resume throwing paper plates, beer bottles, and solo cups into a garbage bag. (Dallon knocks into you with his hip as he walks past, then winks at you. You roll your eyes at him before motioning him over to kiss you.)

\---

Once the sun goes down, the fireworks start getting bad. Your parents slip out to go watch some of them, and you end up face down on your old bed with your hands over your ears, trying not to flinch or cry whenever one of them goes off.

You used to love fireworks and storms, because they're cool, but ever since the incident, you've been really on edge and jumpy, and fireworks and storms don't help that. One of the cons of trauma, you suppose.

Dallon does lay next to you for a mostly uninterrupted six hours (he has to use the bathroom at some point, and has to get a glass of water since he gets thirsty), rubbing your back and just trying to be supportive and comforting. He has a lot of patience when it comes to you, and you're really glad, and really lucky to have him in your life, honestly.

\---

There's one more awkward breakfast with your parents before either of you are due back in New York. It's not as bad as the first day, and you think your parents might be coming around, because the dirty looks become less and less frequent.

Also, Dallon had a discussion with your dad about football, and they bonded, so you figure that has something to do with the lack of dirty looks from his end. Football is the one thing you've never understood. It's confusing to you, and you don't get why people like it. You don't see the appeal. You can get soccer and hockey, since they're simple--get a ball or a puck into the net, and you get a goal, but there's too many different point systems for football for you to bother with it.

You talk to your mother a bit too. You don't have as many urges to tear into her, and it's honestly kind of nice to be able to make a little headway on repairing your relationship with her.

You contemplate the last four years of your life, and the events that'd transpired over the course of those four years while you're on the plane back to New York. Dallon's sleeping on your shoulder for a lot of that flight, opposite of the last one.

Speaking of, he's sort of been a lifesaver, literally and figuratively. He's way too kind for his own good, and it still shocks the hell out of you that he's gone out of his way to make sure that you've been alright and cared for, especially after the January incident. You're also surprised that he's stuck around in general.

Still on the topic of Dallon, you still haven't had sex with him since the one time back in September. There really hasn't been any chances to. There'd been the week and a half where he didn't talk to you, then after he dropped the bomb of his wife leaving him, he'd asked if the two of you could start over, and then holidays happened, meaning things were a little hectic for a while, leaving no room to fool around, aside from the one blow job.

And then you got the snot kicked out of you. It's sort of hard to have sex with broken ribs, a broken wrist, and a gimp hand. (Though, either of you have given each other a few blow jobs and hand jobs here and there, but it hasn't escalated to full on penetrative sex. Also, yes, you're aware of the fact that penetrative sex isn't the only form of sex there is, but in your head, that's what counts as actual, full on sex.)

You aren't bothered by it for the most part. You haven't really had much of an urge to have sex since the incident, since you're a little too caught up on keeping your mental health under control.

You should probably see a therapist, but you've never needed to in the past, so why should now be any different? You have your own ways of coping, and you figure that as long as you're not drinking more than what's considered healthy, doing hard drugs or as long as you're not smoking enough pot to where you can't function, _or_ doing anything reckless, then it can't be that bad.


	9. Chapter 9

You've decided that Tyler's such a fucking asshole. You were bored, and you asked him if he could find something for you to do, and what you meant was that he should actually do his job and make sure that you _had_ one. What he thought you meant, though, was that he could stick you with a fuck ton of his paperwork.

Like you said, you're bored, and you needed something to do, but you didn't think doing a bunch of Tyler's paperwork was going to be part of it.

Tyler leaves the house, and about ten minutes after that, you get a text message from Josh.

 

 **Josh:** brendon my dude my buddy my bestest buddy in the whoooole world

 **Brendon:** you want something dont you

 **Josh:** i want ur earl

 **Brendon:** please specify what you mean

 **Josh:** okay can i come over and rant about some stuff and possibly hang out with you cuz we havent hung out in moooooonths and no homo but, like, dude, i miss ya

 **Brendon:** josh neither of us are straight

 **Brendon:** you can come over tho BUT no weird ear stuff okay??

 **Josh:** gotchu fam

 

You're pretty sure Josh was already on his way to your house, since he shows up about twenty minutes later. There's a knock at the door, and the second you open it, you're asking, "What did you do to your hair?" with a gasp. You reach up and touch Josh's hair, because you, honestly, can't believe the sight. The last time you saw him had been on New Years, and his hair had been short, brown, and fluffy, but now it's a cherry red sort of color and--and he has a _mohawk._ He looks bad ass, though.

"I've always wanted to dye my hair so I finally got around to it. Also, like, I look pretty cool, and people give me weird looks, so it's totally worth it.

You give him just a bit of an incredulous look before you're stepping aside and inviting him in.

\---

Josh is a cool guy, and you like him. You remember having a bit of a crush on him when you first met him in person, because, honestly, he's cute. He's _cute_ and he's super nice. Like, ridiculously so. You remember the one time him and Tyler had a huge fight, and had broken up for a solid three months.

Pete ended up dragging you and Josh to some club, in an attempt to cheer Josh up. It was one of the rare nights that you weren't really in the mood to go to a club, so you ended up just sticking close to Josh, who didn't want to be there either. You managed to talk him into buying you a few drinks, and, honestly, once you have a few drinks in you, you're a little assertive and about ten times as obnoxious as usual.

You also experimented with drugs a bit, and whenever you went to clubs, you tended to stick to ecstasy and amyl nitrate, and this night wasn't an exception. (Well, you didn't have any poppers with you, but you did cop some ecstasy from someone.)

You aren't going to get into too much detail, but Josh had held his hand out, meaning for you to hand him one of the tiny pills, and, long story short, either of you went back to your apartment, and did the dance with no pants on, and after that, you've had zero interest in him.

You also have no intentions of telling Tyler about that night. He's already a bit of an asshole, and you _do not_ want to know what he'd do if he ever found out you'd slept with his boyfriend a few years ago.

\---

Josh tails you as you head back towards the kitchen so you can continue working on Tyler's paperwork. "You can raid the fridge if you want."

Josh gives you a few finger guns, and you were sort of expecting him to start talking, but while he's looking through the fridge for something to eat, he's asking, "What's with the stack of papers?" Josh is the kind of guy who doesn't ask a lot of questions, because he's sort of a chatterbox. Not as bad as you, or as bad as you were, but if he wanted he could have a conversation with himself. He's also the kind of guy that you could always just start talking to him again out of nowhere as if no time had passed. He's a good friend.

(Backtracking to the topic of you not being too much of a chatterbox anymore--ever since the incident, you're more withdrawn and you take to just watching and listening rather than speaking. You're open around Dallon, since he's, like, your boyfriend or whatever (still not officially), but other than him you kind of just... keep to yourself.)

"You know about the modeling thing?" You ask.

Josh nods. "Word travels fast. By that, I mean Pete told me."

You huff and roll your eyes. "Figures it's him. Alright, well, I have a manager, right? He's basically responsible for all of the modeling gigs I do. I haven't done any work for a while and I've been bored lately so I asked him if he'd find me something to do. I figured he was going to make a few calls, and, y'know, _let me work,_ but he showed up about an hour ago, gave me a stack of papers and a copy of his signature, then told me to do his fucking paperwork."

Josh laughs a little bit. "Sounds like an asshole. I'd fire him."

 _No, you would not. I am like, a third of your income, dude._ "I considered it for a hot minute, but he's pretty freaking amazing at his job. I started this shit in... May? I think, and it's August right now. The last thing I did was a shoot for _Yves Saint Laurent._ No joke."

"For real?" Josh's eyes widen almost comically. "Jesus, man. That's pretty sick."

"I know. It was so surreal. Like, my face is going to be associated with Yves Saint Laurent. I'm going to be in _magazines._ Like, _me!_ Of all people! How weird is that?"

"Pretty weird, but pretty cool. What happened to your pipe dream of starting a band and being the most successful musician ever?" Josh is poking fun at you and you know this, but that doesn't stop you from being blunt.

"Reality and a gimp hand happened." Your hand has hardly gotten any better. You can curve your fingers a bit, but that's it. Dallon tells you that it's something, but you're pessimistic.

"Oh. Well, shit. You could still sing though, right?"

"I could, but I lack the confidence. Also, I don't know any other musicians besides Patrick, but he does his own stuff, so I'd be screwed as far as that goes."

"That sucks. Can I complain about my boyfriend?"

"Go right ahead." You're always a slut for dirt on Tyler.

"He travels a lot for work, right? It's not odd for him to get home at weird hours in the night, and _usually_ he gives me a little warning before just showing up. You know what he did a few nights ago, though? He thought to himself, _'Hey! Let's scare the shit out of Josh at four in the fucking morning while he's sleeping so he can be well rested when he gets up to go do his own job!'_ He was so fucking _proud_ of himself. I made him sleep on the couch."

You end up in a laughing fit, and you start crying from laughing at the dirty look Josh gives you. "What a shithead. Oh my god. I've tried doing that to Dallon, but he just, like... He lifts his head, gives me a dirty look, tells me to knock it off, then tells me to come to bed."

"He's nicer than I am, then. You make him sound like a parent."

"The day the 'daddy' jokes end is the day I, like... I don't know. I can't think of anything witty."

"Y'know, how do you even deal with people saying things like that? Like, making the sugar daddy jokes? I get annoyed when my friends make that joke about me and Tyler, but for you--you're like--you've got a following, you know? It's on such a larger scale for you."

"I have twenty thousand followers on Twitter. Not that much. I dunno--mostly I just don't use Twitter. I mean, I still post and all, and it's not as if that's _all_ my notifications are filled with, but it's enough to where I want to commit either homicide or suicide whenever I look at them. Hell, I'm terrible at even accepting more than ten bucks from anyone. I'm the worst candidate for being a sugar baby."

"That's where we differ, man. I would so spend a rich dude's money. Like, take advantage while you can is my logic."

You roll your eyes at him. "Dallon's had a lot of people try using him for money, and I'm one of the only ones who hasn't. I don't intend to start using him for money, like, literally ever. The most I accept from him is material gifts, rather than money."

"I was joking for the most part, dude. I think in reality, I'd be about the same as you, but in my mind, I'd be so down for having a sugar daddy. I love buying things." Josh mutters something about spending Tyler's money, which causes you to roll your eyes. Again.

"I think the most money I've let Dallon spend on me was when he payed my hospital bills a while back. Hospital bills, especially when you don't have insurance, get really fucking expensive after a while."

"Do you get sick a lot or something?" Josh raises an eyebrow.

Of all the things Pete didn't tell him... You're grateful that Pete didn't say anything, but you also hate repeating yourself. "Uh, no. I'm healthy. Did Pete ever tell you what happened to me in January...?"

"No. He just said that something happened to you, but wouldn't go any further into it. Patrick wouldn't tell me either."

"Ah. I only told Pete since I called him that night. I told Dallon, since I live with him, of course. Other than them, though... I haven't told anyone."

"You don't have to tell me if you don't want to, buuut I am morbidly curious."

"It's fine, man. I should probably talk about it anyways rather than pretending it didn't happen. Okay, do you remember my eyeliner and hair straightener phase from high school?"

Josh cringes. He remembers, and says it was a dark time.

"You aren't wrong. Anyways, once in a while, I used to have days where I'd bust out the eyeliner, nail polish, and hair straightener, and i don't know why, but I just... I thought I looked cool, y'know? The seventeenth of January was one of those days where I did that, and Pete had to leave early so I had to stay late and lock up on my own, right?"

Josh nods and gives you a mock dreamy look. His expression drops when you continue.

"I'll be blunt--I looked like a fag. I mean, I'm not gay, but I'm not straight, but you know. I got jumped by three guys and they kicked the shit out of me." You rattle off a list of all of your injuries. That you could remember, at least.

"Jesus Christ! What the hell? I mean, I want to ask if you're okay, but that was--that was months ago."

"Physically, I'm fine for the most part. There's nerve damage in my left hand from when it was shattered, and from my wrist breaking and damaging some nerve. The bones didn't heal right and I can't do more than this--" you bend your fingers as far as you can in an attempt to make a fist without them hurting, then you move your wrist around a little bit to show him your range of motion before continuing, "--with it, but it's getting better. Slowly. I couldn't move it at all for a while. The point is that Dallon's spent quite a fucking lot on my medical bills. Those were just the initial ones."

"Initial?"

"I had check ups, physical therapy appointments, prescriptions, and a few post surgery follow ups. He spent a freaking mint on me, and that's why I get really angry about the sugar daddy jokes."

"That's definitely understandable. How are you, like... mentally? I mean, I have super bad anxiety, so I couldn't even begin to imagine how that'd go."

"I'm doing pretty shitty. I should probably see a therapist, but I never really needed one before, so I don't want to go now. Also, I don't drink a bunch of booze, and I don't do any hard drugs, or anything self destructive, so I figure that it's fine. For now, at least."

"I can see where you're coming from. Personally, I still think you should go, but it's your life."

"Let's change the subject," you say. "I wish _this fucker,"_ you gesture to Tyler's paperwork, "could do his own fucking paperwork."

"Why'd he stick you with it anyways?"

"I have no idea. He's not lazy, like, since I met him in May, he's literally one of the most hard working guys I know, so I just... I don't know why he had me do this. It's not that hard--all I have to do is forge his signature, and a few other things, but the fact of the matter is that he needs to do his own paperwork.

\---

Tyler shows up at the house again right before Josh is about to leave. Tyler has a habit of just walking into the house, and although you're used to it, _Josh_ obviously isn't. Josh also doesn't know that you and Tyler know each other. The look on his face when Tyler's walking into the kitchen is _priceless._

 _"You're_ the asshole who gave him the paperwork?"

Tyler jabs you in the arm pretty painfully with his knuckle. _"Narc!"_

"I just told him that you needed to do it your damn self, alright?"

Tyler just sighs, and asks Josh, "Why are you here?"

"Wanted to talk to Brendon since the last time I saw him was on New Years. Also, we're gossiping."

Tyler scrunches his face up a bit, but heads over to your fridge without another word.

\---

After both Josh and Tyler are out of the house, you fall asleep on the couch because, hey, you're a tired guy, and you like napping. Dallon also apparently has no idea what it means to be quiet when waking your boyfriend up from a very lovely and deep sleep. You all but shove him to the floor from being startled. (He knows not to startle you, so you mentally tell him that he better have some important news.)

After apologizing for startling you, he's saying, "Get up and go put on something nice. We're going out to dinner."

You groan and sit up, an incredulous look settling onto your face. "Why?"

"I got a _really_ nice promotion."

You swing your legs off of the couch with a grunt, and you stretch, popping your back, before asking him, "What kind of promotion?"

And then he has your face in his hands, kissing you in the sloppiest and worst way ever, but he's obviously excited, so you excuse it, especially when he says, _"CEO."_

You don't know what to say, but you're excited and happy for him, so you grin stupidly, suddenly, awake. "No fucking way!"

"Does it look like I'm lying to you?"

You take a moment or two to examine his face, and, _yeah,_ you don't think he's lying to you. "You're--you're serious? _CEO?"_

"Of course I am! Go get dressed because I _really_ want to celebrate."

\---

You're trying to keep your voice down, which is hard, because when you're excited, you unintentionally raise your voice, while you're asking Dallon, "How did you even _get_ that promotion?" A few people are looking in your direction and you're trying to just ignore them.

"Well, the guy who preceded me was one of those stereotypical fat stockbrokers, like, cholesterol factory kind of guy, and he had a _massive_ coronary. It's pretty close to the end of the quarter, and now isn't the time to be without a CEO and I have a few friends in important places, _so,_ I got recommended for the job, _destroyed_ the interview, and, yeah!" Dallon was speaking about fifty miles a minute but you heard every word and it takes everything in you not to stand up and lean across the table to kiss him on the lips.

"That's really amazing, Dallon. I'm happy for you." You grin at him, widely, and he grins back with just as much vigor.

"Thank you, B. So, uh..." Dallon looks down into his drink, then looks back up at you with one eyebrow cocked. "Some of the other brokers in the firm are planning on throwing a celebration party for me, and I was wondering if you'd like to possibly be arm candy...?" He gives you an awkward 'please say yes' grin, and you huff out a little laugh and smile.

"Of course. Are you sure, though? Like, are you out...?" You stir your drink with your straw, causing the ice to make tiny little _clink clink_ noises against the glass.

"I'm not necessarily out, but I'm not in the closet either. It'd be the same deal if I were to bring my ex-wife to this. You're my significant other, I love you more than you can imagine, and this is just something I would like to share with you. A bunch of the other men and women there are going to bring their wives and husbands respectively, so I don't see why I shouldn't bring you. Also, I mean, I'm their _boss_ now, so they couldn't really do anything anyways."

"Did you really just drop the 'L' bomb?" You're grinning like an idiot, and you can feel a blush starting in your ears, definitely bound to spread to your face within a few minutes.

"I'm afraid so. I _was_ waiting for a more... _romantic_ time, but shit happens. Sort of like how I met you. If I hadn't have spilled my coffee all over my car, we wouldn't have met, and I wouldn't be here right now."

"I was close to wussing out when you texted me, honestly. I'm super glad I didn't, though, because I have this _great_ boyfriend who I also love to bits and pieces." You grin a little slyly, and reach across the table with your right hand to squeeze Dallon's left hand. You get one of his signature, sunshine filled grins.

"Anyways, back on topic. I have to give a speech. I hate giving speeches."

"I hate giving them too, man. I think speech and debate was the only class I got a D in. Aside from history, of course." Now, we're about to get into the story of how you fucked one of your teachers. It's finally time for one of your greatest sexual conquests.

Dallon cocks an eyebrow at you, and asks, "When was Malaysia formed, and who was the prime minister of Great Britain who succeeded Churchill?" You know exactly what he's doing.

"Nineteen sixty-three, and Clement Attlee in nineteen forty-five, respectively."

"Yet you got a D in history?"

"Oh, no, don't get me wrong, I got an A+ in that class, but, uh..." You trail off, and you make a show out of looking around yourself slyly before leaning in and whispering, "I fucked my history teacher."

Dallon snorts and rolls his eyes. "Bullshit. You're lying."

"I'm not kidding. He was hot in that, like, dad way, and apparently he was a closeted gay, and _apparently_ he thought my twinky ass looked hot too, _so,_ he bent me over his desk, and fucked me after school one day. I suppose in hindsight I should be creeped out over the fact that me, a fifteen year old, let a guy in his mid thirties fuck me, but, like, it was fuckin' great, man."

"How much _other_ stuff aren't you telling me? Holy shit." Dallon looks gobsmacked, and you grin for the millionth time. He's really beautiful.

"Probably not much. I'm pretty boring."

"Mm, I wouldn't say that," He drawls as he rests his chin in the palm of his left hand, and as he plays with the fingers on _your_ left hand with his other hand. There's a lot of hand business going on right now. You're pretty sure that him playing with the fingers on your left hand is more or less a subconscious thing, because as soon as he notices, he's apologizing. "Sorry; I know you don't like when I do that."

"I don't like it when you accidentally bend my fingers _down,_ because it _hurts. A lot."_

"I try my best, man."

"Y'know, if I could, I'd lean over the table and kiss you right now."

You get a fond look out of him. "I'd kiss you back if you did."

Your gaze ducks down into your dish of something French that you can't pronounce, before you're making eye contact with him again. "I love you. I really do."

"I love you too."

\---

There's probably about forty two seconds in between the time either you and Dallon are in the front door and the time he's pressing you against the wall, one of his legs slotted between yours, a hand threading itself through the hair on the back of your head, pulling you into deep and sensual kiss, one that you melt into. His other hand, the one not on the back of your head, is gripping one of your hips pretty firmly. You, yourself, have your left hand placed almost politely on his shoulder, mostly since that's about all you can do with it, and your right hand is gripping his ass through his slacks, pulling him closer.

A few minutes into the little mauling session, he pulls away for a quick second to ask, "Bedroom?" which prompts you to reply with, "Living room's closer. I keep a condom an a packet of lube in my wallet."

He nods, muttering, "Alright," before telling you to wrap his arms around his neck, like, three seconds before he's hoisting you up, hands gripping the undersides of your thighs as to not drop you while he carries you to the living room. A noise o surprise lets loose from your lips, and it's quickly followed by a giggle as he carries you.

He stands next to the light switch for a few seconds so you can flip it, and dim the lights to where it doesn't feel like the coming of Christ. After that, you're unceremoniously deposited onto the couch.

You're sort of caught off guard by the whole situation, honestly. Sure, you're totally into it, but considering the fact that neither of you had gotten past a blow job or a hand job here and there since September of last year, it's pretty understandable for you to feel that way.

You try not to laugh as Dallon's struggling to get his blazer off without breaking the kiss, or when he almost falls on you trying to get his shoes off. He's a hot mess, if anything. When you first met him, you thought he was this graceful, golden god, smooth like caramel, but, good god, you were _so_ wrong. Sure, he's charming as hell, and he's still comparable to a Greek god, but he's clumsy, he's awkward, and he's goofy.

When he starts unbuttoning your shirt, he goes a little slower than you expected him to, and to you, it seems as if he's savoring the moment. Which you do not mind. When your shirt is about half way unbuttoned, he starts trailing open mouthed kisses down your neck, and he sucks marks into your collarbones, drawing embarrassingly high pitched noises out of you.

You have to let out a quick and rushed, "Oh my god," after he's unbuckled your belt and unzipped your fly, because his hand is down your pants, palming you through your underwear, and, okay, look--you're horny and you're desperate. It's as simple as that.

There's a fleeting moment where you mentally laugh at a miscalculation you'd made after sleeping with him almost a year ago. Given with how _shy_ and _nervous_ he was, you figured you'd be more or less in control in the bedroom, having to tell him what to do, but, _nope,_ you were wrong.

So wrong.

His hands--they're big, they're strong, and they're all over your body, worshiping you like a shrine, touching places that you didn't even know could get you so riled up, and you can feel yourself going pliant under them. This is also probably another moment where the dynamic of your relationship with him changes just a little bit. (Well, at least the sexual aspect of it.)

You find yourself whining when Dallon leans back to unbutton his shirt. To reiterate, you're horny, and--shit--your heart flutters when he looks down at you with a fond look, and shushes you. "I'm going to sweat enough to fill a swimming pool if I don't get this off. Just give me a sec."

"You have, like, five hundred million dollars. Just rip the buttons off or something. You're taking to long." You groan, dramatically, as if it's the worst thing in the world that could be happening to you. (It sort of _is_ in a way.)

"For one thing, my net worth is sitting around _ten_ million, and no. I like this shirt. Anyways, look--I'm done." He shrugs as he slips it off of his shoulders, flinging it in the general direction of wherever he'd thrown his blazer at. He bends down again, and his lips are on yours. For someone with such thin lips, he's, like, really good at kissing, and you feel as if you're addicted to his lips.

You tug at his belt, mumbling, "Take those off," into the kiss. He continues to attempt to _not_ break the kiss as he's getting his pants off. He does break the kiss, though, when he's tugging _your_ pants and underwear off in one go. You would've done it yourself, but it's sort of hard to get a pair of pants off _while_ laying down _and_ with only one working hand.

You're expecting him to come right back to kissing you, but he bats your hand away gently when you're trying to tug him back. You're a little miffed until you see your wallet in his hands. He places the condom and the packet of lube onto the coffee table, and it's after he's stuffed your wallet back into your slacks that he's back on top of you.

Things slow down for a while. He takes the time to make sure that you're hard and desperate under him, makes sure that you're enjoying it, and he just--he's so _attentive,_ and you're getting emotional. Not emotional enough to cry or anything, but you feel close to him. Closer than you've been with anyone before. It's _intimate._

He takes his sweet time working you open with his fingers, kissing you the whole time, only smirking once in a while whenever you moan softly from his fingers moving in the right direction.

You end up asking him to speed things along just a bit. You want _more,_ and you can see his cock; it's hard, looking almost painful, and he's already fumbling around a bit. He's shaking a tiny bit too. He's nervous. He fidgets and trembles slightly whenever he gets nervous. "Dal? Are you... nervous? You're doing the thing," you say as he's trying, and failing, to get a condom packet open.

He takes a break from his attempts at opening the condom, and you take it from him to open it with your teeth. He responds as you're doing that. "Of course I'm nervous. We haven't done this since last year, and, like... you're hot. I'm... kind of not."

"Oh, bullshit!" You roll your eyes, and you sit up a bit. Dallon still has _easy access_ to your nether regions, but you need to look him in the eye. "You're a wet dream. Like, I pop boners every time you cop a feel, and I seriously feel inferior next to you. _You_ should be the model here. You've got the bone structure for it, and you're so, _so_ pretty."

Dallon huffs and breaks eye contact. You sit up even more, and, somehow, you manage to roll a condom onto him with one hand. It shouldn't be considered too much of a feat, but usually you have to use two hands, so you're a little impressed with yourself.

As you're laying on your back again, motioning for him to lean down and give you a kiss, he makes eye contact with you and gives you this _face._ Like, the face that means he's asking you for permission. You smile at him warmly and nod, continuing to beckon him over with your right hand.

After he drizzles the rest of the lube onto his cock, he props himself up with one arm as he's slowly starting to push in, and you sigh in a satisfied sort of way. It's been a while since you've gotten some dick. Your fingers can only do so much.

Dallon drops down to where he's propping himself up with his forearms as he slowly starts to thrust, and he kisses you for the, like, fifteenth hundredth time. You really like the skin on skin contact, the intimacy, the feeling of him basically surrounding you, making you feel safe. The feeling stays the same, even as the sex grows more intense and desperate, even as he gets to the point to where he's fucking into you relentlessly.

You shoot your load a little prematurely. Your own dick is sort of caught between your stomach and his, and the friction against it, considering how fast he's moving, plus-- _plus_ the feeling of having a certain little _spot_ inside of you rammed into over and over, is enough to drive you over the edge.

He fucks you through it, a hand running through your hair, and he whispers praise and sweet nothings into your ear the whole time. You basically hold onto him for dear life, the fingernails of your right hand digging into his back, and your legs wrapped around his hips.

You tell him to keep going, even if it means you're squirming and making, like, really embarrassing noises, and scratching part of his back up. You think the noises he's making are really hot. Like, hot enough that they'd make you cum again. Whenever he's close, he tends to start letting out somewhat high pitched short, little, gasping moans, and he has a tendency to hide his face in the space between your neck and your shoulder.

After he cums, he doesn't pull out right away. He kind of flops down onto you, and although your head is a little fuzzy, since you sort of just had mind-blowing sex, you're still petting his hair, because that's a thing he likes post-coitus (or post orgasm, considering the two of you haven't slept together in, like, eons.).

It takes him about five minutes to gather himself; five minutes before he's leaning back and pulling out. You want to whine a little bit, since you sort of want to cuddle with him. You try to be patient, though, as he's tying the condom off, and wrapping it up in a tissue from the box on the coffee table. You watch as the gears in his head turn, since he's trying to figure out what to do with the condom, because there isn't a waste bin in the living room. He ends up just putting it on the coffee table, mumbling something about getting to it later.

He takes a few more tissues from the box on the table, and wipes the remnants of _your_ load from your stomach, and from his.

He ends up on his back, with you tucked into his side, and the blanket that'd been thrown over the back of the couch covering either of you. Laying on the couch isn't something that's going to be, like, for the night, but either of you need time to decompress a bit.

"Was it good?" He asks.

You nod, meekly replying with, "Yeah." His hand is in your hair now, and your eyes are closed. You're sort of a slut for intimacy. You _really_ like how you feel right now; you like feeling safe.

 

The two of you end up taking a bath together after working up the urge to get off of the couch. You've taken baths with Dallon before. They're cathartic, in a way. Usually you take baths with him after one of your routine panic attacks, or after he's had a long day, or both. Of course, baths in general are cathartic, but tossing in a gorgeous man who you love to bits and pieces into the mix definitely adds to it. Also, Dallon's name is synonymous with 'safe' in your head.

"How you doing?" He asks in a very gentle tone.

You shrug. "Pretty great, honestly. Just got laid for the first time in months. Though, my ass is probably gonna be sore for a few days. Man, why haven't we done this since last year?"

Dallon shrugs this time. "No clue. We could _definitely_ make it a regular thing if you wanted to, though."

"Of course I want. I'm at my sexual peak, Dallon. I need sex about as much as I need oxygen, and, well, let's be real--you're a pretty good lay."

His arms wrap around your torso, and he hugs you. "You're not half bad yourself."

"I'm amazing."

"I'll give you that one."


	10. Chapter 10

You sort of enjoy the celebration party that Dallon's coworkers decide to throw for him. It's sort of awkward, for you, since Dallon is up most of the time, kissing ass and making himself look good, whereas you take to sitting at a table, off to the side, sipping at a glass of wine.

It gets even more awkward when this _guy_ sits across from you. He looks creepy, honestly. That's the vibe he gives you. The vibe gets worse when he's leaning forward, voice lowered, asking, "So, have you heard about _him?"_

You look him over, size him up. He's old. Like, not ridiculously old, but you'd guess that he's in his late forties, early fifties. To you, a twenty one year old, that's, like, ancient. He also has the world's shittiest toupee, too, along with ugly horn rimmed glasses, and a very, _very_ tacky suit. You play innocent, replying with, "What do you mean?" as if you didn't see him glancing in Dallon's general direction.

He's a little more obvious about gesturing towards Dallon this time before answering you with a flick of his wrist as he says, "That he's a _fairy."_

Ah, yes, lovely. Just what you wanted. You were specifically asked to _not_ start anything with anyone, and to basically be a shining beacon of politeness, no matter how annoyed you got. Of course, that's not stopping you from being just a little vindictive. "You know, I haven't heard about that, actually. How do you know?"

"Well, there's a rumor going around the office that he divorced his wife, who was quite a looker, might I add, to be with a _man."_

You've seen a few pictures of Breezy, and you have to agree with this man. She's beautiful. Even you can admit that. "Wow... Why would _anyone_ give up being with a beautiful woman for a _man?"_

The guy shakes his head a little bit. "Beats me. I don't get it--why would you make your life that much more difficult? It just--it doesn't seem worth it."

"You do have a point, Sir." He sort of does. Sort of. It's not like Dallon can just pick and choose who he's attracted to or who he falls in love with, though.

"Added, I couldn't _imagine_ having sex with a man. I can't see him doing it either." He gestures towards Dallon again, and it takes everything in you not to start laughing when you think about how he's been balls deep in you at least three times this week already. "It's just--it's gross, if anything, not to mention an _abomination."_

Oh, great! He's religious, or so you're assuming, given he busted out the 'a' word. "An even better point. You should watch your mouth, though."

"Excuse me?"

"I'm just saying that he's your boss now, and, hey, word travels fast about who's gossiping. Y'know, I never caught your name." You look at him more directly now.

He sticks his hand out, and you shake it as he introduces himself as Tim Smith from accounting. After you've introduced yourself as _just_ Brendon Urie, he's saying, "Well, no one has to find out about this, now do they, Mister Urie?"

You shrug. "You never know, Tim."

Almost like clockwork, Dallon starts walking over to where you're sitting, and you have to try not to start grinning your signature shit-eating grin when he's bending down to kiss you on the lips for a few seconds before he's talking a seat. "How're you doing?" He asks.

"I'm doing great. So, uh, Dallon, have you met Tim Smith? From Accounting? He was just telling me about how you're apparently a fairy, and how you divorced your wife to be with a man. The funniest thing, isn't it?"

He turns his attention to _Tim,_ fingers clasped together, eyebrows raised, saying, "Really? Is that so?"

Never in your life have you ever seen a grown man scurry away faster. You cackle a little bit, and kiss Dallon on the cheek. "That was perfect."

"As always. He wasn't bothering you or anything, was he?"

You shake your head. "Nah. He's just some creepy old dude. How about your bosses, though? Are they all, like, okay with the gay thing?"

"Of course. I wouldn't be in this position if they weren't. They figured it'd be a bold, risky move, but that it could work out better in the long run, you know? Like, the public image of the company, and then something about LGBT right."

"I mean, a gay guy being the CEO of a rather large corporation is definitely a pretty good thing. You're sort of a good example of an established gay man. Anyways, I bet half the people working for you never thought they'd _ever_ work for a gay guy." You smile sweetly, and kiss him on the lips this time.

Dallon huffs at you. "You're drunk, aren't you?" He's also giving you a sly smile.

"Just a little bit. This wine is, like, _really_ good, you know?" You gesture towards your wine glass, and swish it around a bit in the cup.

"You hate wine, Brendon." His eyebrows go up.

"I know, but champagne wasn't really doing it for me tonight."

"Well, if you're not _too_ drunk, you should walk around with me while I chat up a few people. Let me show off my beautiful and wonderful boyfriend." He has a dopey as hell grin on his face and it makes you laugh.

"Can I introduce you as the smart-ass stockbroker who stole my heart?"

"Is wine what it takes to turn you into a romantic?"

"No, Dallon. I meant that you literally ripped my chest open, and took my heart. That's not romantic at all."

He starts giggling, and leans forward in his seat to kiss you on the cheek. "I love you, Brendon."

\---

Roughly three weeks after Dallon is appointed CEO, Tyler pops up at the houses unannounced, again, and slams two plane tickets onto the coffee table in front of you. You glance from Keeping Up With The Kardashians to Tyler, saying, "What do you want?" You sound pissy, and you sort of are, because, like, you're on the episode where Bruce, or, well, Caitlyn now, but she wasn't out in 2013, reveals he's basically obsessed with toy airplanes. Like, the ones that fly via remote.

"We're going to Paris," Tyler states.

"Can I ask why, and if I have a choice?" You sigh, and close your eyes. You're a tired person. Tyler is exhausting.

"I pulled a few strings, called a few people, talked to a few buddies, and managed to book you for a photo shoot with Dior. Also, no, you don't have a choice, so pack some clothes and whatever other essentials you need, because we're leaving in three days. Also, inform your boyfriend of it this time before he crawls up your ass again. You didn't tell him the last time I took you out of New York."

"Okay, but, Florida is different than New York."

"Still. Go pack your shit."

\---

A week later, you and Tyler are on a flight, bound for France, flying coach for once, and you decide to strike up a conversation with Tyler, since you don't really talk to him very often. "How long are we going to be in France?"

"Four days. Originally, it was going to be a week, but I'm cutting it a few days short, because I want to be in the states again as soon as we can. I have to go to Columbus and be with Josh. His grandpa died, and I kind of have to be there as a formality."

"You're sort of a stone cold bitch, dude."

Tyler rolls his eyes and gives you a look. "Josh knows that's why I'm going to be there, dude. His mother will probably crawl up my ass about not being there beforehand to help with the funeral, but I'm paying for it anyways, so, hopefully, she won't ream me _that_ bad."

"Ah."

"I liked his grandpa. His mom's dad, at least." Tyler's rambling now. "He was a good man, honestly. He was sort of the only one in his family who actually really approved of the whole gay thing. Or, well, my gay thing, and his bi thing."

"That's good. My parents weren't cool with it at first. I mean, the only reason I'm in New York is because I got kicked out, and Pete was the only one who could and who was willing to take me in."

"He's a good guy. I mean, I've known him in middle school, and although he did have this dickish phase where no one liked him, he's still just... a good person."

"Can I ask why you act like an asshole? I mean, I know you're not, but you _act_ like one."

"Part of my job. I have to maintain a certain level of professionalism with most of my clients, but you're an exception. You're like a brother to Josh, aside from the one time the two of you fucked a few years ago, so you don't get the full asshole treatment."

"You _know_ about that?"

"Of course. He tells me everything. I heard you had quite the crush." He wiggles his eyebrows at you. You cringe.

"It was small. The smallest crush. We were both plastered anyways."

"I'm not mad, man. We weren't a thing when it happened, so I don't really care."

"You seriously don't give a shit?"

"Not really, no. Look, I'm kind of the guy who can't hold on to things, because i get stressed, then it's no fun for anyone. My attitude builds up, then I blow up, so letting things go is better than ripping someone a new asshole out of nowhere."

"Fair enough."

"Dude, you wouldn't have liked me when I was seventeen. I was literally the biggest asshole. I'm surprised Josh even stayed with me."

"Dude, he, like, really loves you. If I didn't know any better. I'd say the two of you were an old married couple. It's ridiculous. I thought _my_ parents were bad about that stuff, but the two of you are so much worse."

Tyler nudges you in the arm, and tells you to shut up.


	11. Chapter 11

Things are always hectic whenever you're overseas, but, overall, everything goes... good. You get paid a fair amount, especially considering you were working upwards of eighteen hours per day for three days. Modeling isn't an easy job. You bust your ass.

You get about two days to recuperate once you're home, though, before Dallon drops the ball on you. You get suspicious when he actually takes the time to cook a meal for the two of you to share, and your suspicions are confirmed when he's saying, "I need you to do a favor for me."

"Elaborate, please," you're saying before taking a bite of your pathetically small serving of spaghetti. Okay, it's not pathetically small, but you're using a salad plate for your meal, rather than using a dinner plate like a normal person would.

He breaks eye contact with you, and resorts to pushing spaghetti around on his plate a bit before saying, "My parents want to visit."

"Do you want me to get out of the house for a few days or something...?" You frown a little bit, not because you're mad or anything, but because you're kind of confused. What _favor_ could he possibly want out of you?

Now, he's making eye contact with you again, looking somewhat apologetic. "No, not at all. Actually, kind of the opposite. They want to meet you. I talked to my mom a few days ago, and she said that her and my father want to _try_ to... _accept_ us. Now, personally, I don't think that we need to be accepted, but given that my parents are devout Mormons, I figure that's the best I'm getting out of them, at least for a while."

"Oh. Alright, I guess. What was the favor you wanted?"

"You have more free time than I do, and I've been _really_ busy lately, meaning I don't really have the energy to go shopping in the evenings."

"I already do our grocery shopping, dude. You're kind of inept. What do you need me to get?"

"Can I just... give you a list? It'd be easier."

You shrug. "Sure, I guess."

"Um, also, probably worth it to mention, but we have, like, five days until they're going to be here."

You close your eyes, sigh, then give him a really bored look. "You couldn't have told me this sooner?"

"I probably could have. Anyways, just--I haven't spoken to my parents in almost a year, but suddenly they want to visit, and I want them to see that either of us are making an effort too."

You set your fork down on your plate, and reach halfway across the dining table, motioning for him to give you his hand. Of course, he does, and you squeeze it. "I got it. I'm a fast shopper, and we have four days."

"I owe you at least twenty blow jobs for this."

"You don't need to bribe me with fellatio, Dallon."

\---

 **Brendon:** hey

 **Pete:** hey yourself

 **Brendon:** i have a proposition for you

 **Pete:** what u want

 **Brendon:** okay if i buy you groceries and pay your rent this month would u like... go shopping with me for a few things

 **Pete:** i mean id go shopping with you anyways but rent and groceries cant hurt

 **Pete:** can i bring my child tho

 **Brendon:** of course u can hes the bomb . com

 **Pete:** awesome

\---

"You're seriously still driving this piece of crap?" Pete asks you this as he's getting his kid situated in the back seat.

You turn, replying with, "Look, I've made a bit of money from the whole modeling thing, but not enough to buy a car that isn't ugly as sin. Also, I mean, it could be worse. I've at least gotten the paint redone. Also, I'm buying you groceries and paying for your rent, so shut up." You roll your eyes. When he's getting into the passenger's seat, you add, "Can I ask you a question?"

"Go for it."

"Why did you bleach your hair? It looks godawful."

"I needed a change from the black. Also, I don't need this harassment."

\---

Honestly, you feel like you're eighteen again, standing in a store with Pete. Like, you're having some serious flashbacks to the brief period of time that you lived with him, even if this store is so far out of his budget that it isn't even funny. You're dragged out of your little bout of nostalgia, though, by Pete asking, "Is Dallon for real with these bed sets? Who the heck pays six hundred dollars for a freaking _bedset?"_

"His parents are uppity," you say with a shrug. "I don't think they're as uppity as he says they are, mostly since he said he grew up in the suburbs of freaking _Ogden,_ and since his parents apparently make barely a percent of what _he_ makes, but still. I'm basically just doing what he tells me."

"And ninety dollar pillows--why is he trying so hard?"

You shrug. "I have no idea. I haven't known him _that_ long, but, since I met him, he always tries just a _little_ too hard."

Pete shakes his head.

\---

"So," You're starting as you scan the list in your hands, as if it will provide anymore insight on what you're to do today, "he told me to buy a table cloth that wasn't overly tacky, and that at least halfway matched the bed sets, but I have no color coordination whatsoever, so you gotta help me with this."

"Brendon, I'm majoring in business administration. Why do you expect me to know how to coordinate colors?"

"You're gay as all get out, and you apartment matches perfectly, so unless mister _Plaid and_ _Polka Dot_ has suddenly lost his tackiness, then it's you who's good at it."

"For one thing, his tackiness is endearing, and for another thing, _why_ do you even need a table cloth? They're so unnecessary."

"Ask his holiness. Also, place mats. Those gotta match too."

Pete grunts. "What colors are all your curtains?"

"Beigeish."

"Alright, then. We're going for beige, I guess. Also, here--can you carry him? It'll be easier if I could use both my hands if I'm gonna be the one picking out the table cloth and place mats."

You give him a _look._

Pete rolls his eyes. "I _know_ your left hand is all messed up, but I think you can carry a forty pound five year old."

\---

Once the three of you are in the car again, Pete's taking a deep breath and asking you what else there is.

_"Um."_

 

**Things to Buy**

 

~~two bed sets & six pillows from [store] (if not there bed bath and beyond MIGHT have them but probably not)~~

~~table cloth/place mats (please do not get tacky ones and also make sure they match) (you could probably find something at walmart but I'd prefer if walmart wasn't, like, where you got them at)~~

~~go to that one store and get new cases for the throws on the couch & similar to everything else on this list please make sure they match~~

towels. we need towels. get black, brown, and red ones. i'll organize them myself.

get that one wine that you hate that comes in the fancy bottle (for mother) then a bottle of that one whiskey you drank an entire bottle of at some point (for father)

get snack foods from that one place you criticize me for shopping at. like. the expensive one with the deli counter of hors d'oeuvres.

get some crackers & a cheese ball & a frozen lasagna

also this doesn't have to do with my parents but we need more lube & not the cheap kind like get the nice silicone one at the one shop or whatever (and probably more condoms? i haven't checked but better to be safe than sorry i guess)

after all that just get, like... basic groceries. thanks.

 

Pete's laughing as he reads the second to last one. "Aside from _that one,_ we're gonna be pretty busy. Where should we go next?"

"Probably Walmart or Costco, honestly. I mean, we can get towels and crackers and a cheese ball, plus a lasagna, from either of those places."

"Alright then. Let's go."

\---

While you're arguing with Pete over what flavor of cheese ball to get, an older woman comes up to the two of you, saying, "My, my; don't the two of you make a handsome couple," with a smile on her face.

You're about to protest, tell her that she's wrong, but Pete's suddenly got an arm around your shoulders, and he's kissing your cheek, saying, "Yeah, we sure do." You're _blushing_ and you _really_ want to smack him.

The woman is sweet, and you can tell. She seems sincere, especially as she's looking at Pete's son and continuing; _"And_ the two of you have a son? That's so _wonderful."_

"Yeah, he's a pretty good kid," Pete starts, digging his heel into your foot as you try to move away. "I think he has my eyes, but _definitely_ his nose." _God_ you want to smack him.

The lady laughs a little bit, and Pete keeps the charade up until she's walking away.

You shove him away the second she's out of sight. "You _dick!_ Why do you do these things?"

"Dad! Uncle Brendon _swore!"_

"Uncle _Brendon,_ how _dare_ you!" Pete acts offended, and you just--you don't even know how to react. He's such a dick.

\---

You're home for about twenty minutes to carry everything Dallon had asked you to buy inside, and to put groceries away after you'd dropped Pete's kid off at his apartment, since Patrick's finally home apparently, and then Pete's dragging you all across Harrison to every grocery store that he can't personally afford to shop at, since you promised to buy him groceries for the month.

He totally takes advantage of you by buying at _least_ five hundred dollars worth of groceries, and you totally give him a dirty look as you're swiping your debit card and entering your pin into the machine. You're not mad, necessarily, but you knew that he'd pedal you for all you're worth.

You also write him a check for about two grand, since that's what his rent is, but, by doing that, you're tapping into the rest of the money you were going to blow on yourself this month, and although you could probably pay Pete's rent for at _least_ the next year, you're still super stingy.


	12. Chapter 12

Dallon spends the evening before his parents show up cleaning, fixing the beds, the table, the _couch,_ the linen closet, and fixing anything else he deems unfit for his parents to see. You want to stop him, to tell him to sit his skinny ass down, but you know that it'd be essentially useless, since he's so _stubborn,_ so you take to sitting in one of the arm chairs watching TV and trying to ignore him.

\---

The day _of,_ you spend the morning watching him run around the house, _again,_ trying to figure out what the fuck he wants to wear, and then just about having a panic attack when the doorbell is ringing an hour before his parents are expected to be there. He makes _you_ answer it, and you really want to fucking _maim_ Pete. "Why the hell are you here?"

"I need you to babysit. I know you have the thing with his parents, but Patrick ended up having to fly to Los Angeles for something _really_ important, and I have to go back to Chicago for some family stuff, then Columbus for more family stuff. I'd take him with me but I just--I wouldn't have the time to take care of him, and it'd be easier if you babysat. Also, Tyler's being a dick, and I don't particularly trust him with a kid, but I trust you, so _please."_

_Isn't Tyler supposed to be in Columbus? Why is he in New York right now?_

You hear Dallon say, _"Oh, good fucking god,"_ from somewhere else in the house, presumably in response to Pete's request.

"Of course, man. I'll do it. Free of charge. You gotta do what you gotta do, am I right?"

Pete sighs in relief. "This is for a week at most, alright? And you promise to get him to school on time?"

"Yes, Pete, I promise."

Pete comes in with a few things that his kid will need for the rest of the week, and to help you and Dallon get ready to care for a child, before he's leaving half an hour later.

By then, Dallon's wearing a pair of sensible jeans, and a pair of socks that match the sweater he's wearing. "Dallon?"

"What? Do I have something on me?"

"Okay, calm down. You just look, like, really gay."

"You're wearing a v-neck and skinny jeans." He doesn't look impressed with you.

"So? I'm twenty one. I have an excuse."

He just rolls his eyes at you.

\---

When there's a _knock_ on the door, Dallon ends up tripping on his way from running from the couch to the door, slamming his face onto the floor, effectively giving himself a bloody nose. You give his face a once over before muttering, "Jesus Christ. Go in the bathroom; I'll answer it."

You're carrying Pete's id on your hip when you answer the door, and Dallon's father, who's call, sort of like Dallon is, immediately says, "Oh, sorry. I think we have the wrong house."

"Nah, you don't. Your genius of a son tripped on his way to the door and his nose is bleeding something fierce." You step aside, and usher them in. They follow you as you lead the way to the living room, and they sit down on the couch while you and Pete's kid occupy either of the armchairs.

The way you're looking at them definitely makes their skin crawl. You can just tell. They remind you of your parents, in which they're a little WASPy, and have the typical 50+ year old suburban parent haircuts. "So, uh... is this your son?" Dallon's father asks.

"Oh, god no. One of my friends has a situation going on, so I'm babysitting for him on short notice. I'm 'Uncle Brendon.'"

"That's... sweet." You can just _feel_ the slight passive aggressiveness dripping from his mother's tone. "So, your friend... Why does he just leave him with _you?"_

"Because I'm a family friend, and ever since this little fella was born babysitting duties have fell onto me." You make it sound as if it's such a chore, and Pete kid jumps up and tries hitting you in the arm. Playfully, of course. You go along with it.

"Isn't his wife home? Why doesn't _she_ take care of him?"

"Oh, that'd be a great idea if he wasn't gay, and if his fiance wasn't in Los Angeles investigating a possible record deal." You shrug, and once Pete's kid takes to sitting in your lap, Dallon's father asks how two men could possibly raise a child together. He sounds more genuine about it, and you get it--he's old, he's ignorant, and he's trying to learn about this stuff. You can totally respect that. "Just the same as a man and a woman would. They take care of him, feed him, clothe him, love him, and etcetera, just like any good parent is supposed to."

Aaand after that, an awkward silence falls over the room, up until Pete's kid starts chattering and answering questions, which yo utry to answer as best as you can. Dallon takes about fifteen minutes to make an appearance after dealing with his bloody nose. There's a bruise starting to form on his nose, and you sort of want to kiss him on the nose, just because, like, it's affectionate or whatever, but you sort of _can't_ right now. Also, he's speaking anyways.

"Um. Hey Mom, Dad."

He gets a stiff and awkward hug from his mother, then a handshake from his father, and his mother only gets to say, "How are you do--" before _Tyler's_ stepping into the living room. Fucking. Tyler. (Not related to the topic, but he's wearing the tackiest yellow blazer. It should look godawful, but, honestly, he's managing to make it look kind of alright, although not the best.)

"Uh. Am I interrupting something important?" His eyebrows are raised a little bit, and he's gesturing back and forth between you, Dallon, and his parents.

"Tyler, these are Dallon's parents. Mr. and Mrs. Weekes, this is Tyler, my manager, who has absolutely terrible timing." _Today is such a shit show, I swear to god. I'll be surprised if Dallon doesn't have a heart attack._

"Oh. _Um._ Should I leave?"

"What do you need?"

"Work stuff, and Josh stuff."

You look to Dallon, silently asking him for permission to leave the room with Tyler. He just sighs, a little loudly, and waves you out. Pete's kid hangs onto your pant leg as he follows you and Tyler up the stairs and into the room Dallon uses as a 'study.' It's basically a bedroom that he converted into an office, honestly. It's big and unnecessary, but it's nice.

"So, if there's a room like _this_ in your house, why don't we use it instead of the kitchen?"

"I haven't ever thought to, alright? I mean, theoretically, it'd be a helluva lot easier, but the kitchen usually requires less movement. Added, there's a table in there, so it's easier to use when you have to show me paperwork or whatever."

\---

"So..." Tyler pulls a few sheets of paper out of a folder. "I have a few local things lined up for you, if you'll take them, of course."

"Obviously I will. If it's at least fairly local, then I'll take it."

"Y'know, for some reason, I really feel like hitting you right about now. Like, the pun kind of hitting. I don't know _why_ though."

"Honestly, I kind of feel like I did drop a wickedly good pun, but, similar to you, I can't, like, figure out why. Anyways--what are they?"

"Two shows, and three shoots. If you take them, you'll be busy until the middle of December."

"I'll do them. I've been meaning to ask you to get a few more things lined up for me anyways."

"Awesome." Tyler hands the papers to you, and after you skim them and scribble your signature onto them, you hand them back to him. "Okay, so, now that that's done, onto the Josh topic."

The first thing out of your mouth is, "What did you do?"

"Why do you assume _I_ did something?"

"Because, you look guilty, and Josh is too chill to start anything. The last time the two of you got into a fight, it was you who was in the wrong, so I just figured you were at fault again."

"... Fair enough. So, uh... You know how his grandfather died...?"

"Mhm. You told me." You just raise your eyebrows and lean back in your seat a bit while you wait for him to continue.

"Well, basically, I ran my mouth, and got into it with his parents, and caused a _huge_ scene at the funeral. _Josh_ told me to go home. Like, he literally kicked me out of the funeral himself."

"You're about as bad as _I_ am with the running your mouth thing. Jesus. Kicked out of a funeral. Impressive."

"It's _not_ impressive. It wasn't supposed to be. I just--I don't have a brain to mouth filter. I can't help it. Anyways, the way he acted, I just... What if he breaks up with me or something?"

"Oh, can it. He wouldn't break up with you over this, and if he does, then he's a jerk."

\---

Dallon's mother gives you a little bit of an interrogation, mostly to see what kind of person you are, and to see if you're _using_ her son. You end up cutting her off at some point, and flat out saying, _"Look,_ I can provide for myself. I'm not a helpless damsel in distress. If we were to break up, I could move out on my own and be just fine. I don't _need_ him to take care of me, and to give me money or whatever the hell else. I'm with him because I want to be, not because he's rich, or because he's good looking. I _love_ him. Hell, I've had this talk with him anyways, so save me the spiel of bullshit."

At that, she just _grins,_ and tells you that she likes you, and that you're _good_ for Dallon. You're a little... shocked, to say the least. You figured she'd give you some annoyed, pissy little look, but, no, she likes you.

(You tell Dallon about the exchange later in the night, and he acts _shocked_ that she likes you, mostly since she apparently did _not_ like his ex wife.)


	13. Chapter 13

You have a pretty lengthy discussion with your father on the second night of your parents' visit. The two of you are sitting on the patio, mostly for privacy. You're pretty sure Brendon ducked out at some point to go over to Tyler's house, probably to relax. Either that or he's talking to your mother. You're not sure. Anyways, though, your father felt the need to sit on the patio, just in case. “He's a little young.”

“Mom's a little young.”

“Fair. Why should I give you my blessing?” You father has always been blunt and up front with what you need to do to win his approval. In a way, you appreciate it, but you also despise the fact that you have to basically bend over backwards whenever you want his approval on something.

“Because I'm twenty-eight, I'm an adult, and because I love him more than you can imagine.”

“Why do you love him?” You get a calculative look out of him, and it irks you just a bit. “It's not because he's young and pretty, is it? It's not because he's seduced you or tricked you?”

“I'm not a child anymore, Father. I love him for him. We've been together for nearly year now. I think by now I'd know if he was trying to use me in any capacity. I don't think I should have to prove myself to you, especially about this. I'm _happy,_ and for once in my fucking life, why can't you just be happy for me? I have a master's degree, I'm a millionaire, and I'm in a relationship with someone whom I love dearly. Isn't that enough? I have a _life.”_

“I suppose.” He makes some other noise of acknowledgment, and you just sigh. That's probably the most support you're going to get out of him.

 

After your parents retire for the night, and after Brendon slips back in, smelling kind of like booze and weed, the two of you sit across from each other at the dining table, sharing a Styrofoam carton of nachos. He's telling you about something dumb Josh had said, and he's laughing a little bit. He's looking you in the eye, and you think he's hyping the story up a little bit, trying to make you laugh, and you indulge him. He's cute.

He's grinning kind of like a dumb-ass, and he's filled with soft laughs and fond looks and after one of his fond looks, you're hit with a realization. _I'm in love with him._

Needless to say, you _sleep_ with him that night, and you worship his body as if he were a god, trying to express your affection without the use of words aside from the occasional whispered, “I love you,” here and there.

\---

Pete retrieves his kid the day after Dallon's parents leave, and you just breathe a sigh of fucking relief before face planting into the bed. You feel the bed dip as Dallon lays down next to you. “Never again do I want both my parents and Pete's kid here at the same, _plus_ Tyler being here at least eight hours a day. That was a fucking nightmare.”

“I agree with you one hundred percent, dude. I like Pete's kid, I do, but the little guy is fucking exhausting. I don't know how Pete does it.”

“I mean, Pete also has Patrick, and I would've tried helping more if I knew how to properly take care of a child. Also, I know this is getting old, but how's your hand doing?”

“It's fine, I guess. A little sore, but my fingers can bend even further than before, so it's something. They're almost to the point I could give a decent hand job if I wanted to.”

He snorts, then rolls over onto his own stomach to properly look you in the eye. His face looks a little funny pressed into the mattress like that, and his hair, which really needs to be cut, is a fuckin' bird's nest. He looks a little tired, too, but also just looks… _happy_ _._ His face just looks super soft, at the least, so you move your head towards him enough to kiss him.

It's an awkward kiss, but he kisses back, then he's all but whispering, “I'm a lucky guy.”

“How so?”

“I have a wonderful boyfriend, a wonderful job, a wonderful _house,_ and everything is great, you know?” He's smiling just a bit and, yeah, he's definitely the most beautiful man you've ever seen.

“You're a sappy shit.”

He sighs, wistfully; “You love it though.”

“Of course I do.”


	14. Chapter 14

You've always been a little insecure about your weight and your body. You're healthy, and just a little below average, but the guy from one the magazines you were supposed to be modeling for who said, “You're too fat. Get out of here,” definitely didn't help matters. You weren't having the best day in the first place, your hand was acting up, and you were just _tired,_ so on your way home, you end up having to hold back tears.

Once you're standing in front of the big as hell floor to wall mirror in the bedroom, you end up just being pissed off and upset. You try your best to get your button up off, but you can't manage it. You can't _rip_ it off either, because you can't move your left hand, and you can't unbutton it with one hand because you're not coordinated enough + you're shaking like a leaf in the wind.

You feel like you're suffocating, as if the collar around your neck is choking you, and not in the fun way. The cuffs on your sleeves feel too constricting and you start feeling sick to your stomach. You really need to get this fucking shirt off, but you _can't._

You only get twenty minutes to freak out before Dallon is traipsing into the room, kicking his shoes off, and beginning to gripe about work before he gets a look at you. “Jesus Christ—what's wrong?”

Honestly, you don't think you've ever had a more pathetic voice as you're saying, “I can't get this _fucking_ shirt off.”

He sighs, and gives you a kind of sad look, before telling you to come towards him. “That's not all that's wrong, is it?”

You're not even going to try arguing with him, or to pretend you're fine. “No. It's not.”

“Give me your hands.” He unbuttons the cuffs on your sleeves, and you almost cry in fucking relief. “Why'd you wear a button up today?”

“I thought I looked good, plus my hand was fine this morning but it started acting up around the time I had lunch, which was around eleven or so. Jesus, I'm so fucking pathetic. I can't even unbutton my own goddamn shirts.”

“We've been over this, Brendon.”

“I know, but it still doesn't stop me from feeling like shit about it. On the topic of pathetic shit, do you think you could unbuckle my belt for me? Belts are complicated and require two hands.” And now you're wiping at your eyes. “I just want to fall asleep for a while then wake up when everything is alright. I'm sorry you have to put up with my bullshit.”

You walk past him and over towards your dresser to find pajamas. He sighs again, except this time he sounds annoyed, maybe even pissed off. “Will you cut it out with the self-deprecation? I get it—shit sucks, but quit feeling sorry for yourself! You can ask for fucking help!” Oh, shit, he's yelling at you. He hasn't done that before. He really must be pissed off. “Jesus—do you think I'm going to _leave_ you? Is that what you fucking think?”

Now you're whipping around, and, hoo boy, if looks could kill, he'd be six feet under by now. “You don't _know_ what I think. You don't _know_ what I've been going through for the past ten fucking months. You _don't_ get it. You're not the one dealing with the fucking _nightmares_ and the _panic attacks_ and the fucking _body image issues._ You're not the one who's terrified of leaving the fucking house _alone,_ you're not the one who can't _sleep_ alone, you're not the one with the _gimp fucking hand,”_ You throw your hand up in the air in a fashion that's almost violent, and _then_ he cuts you off before you can continue.

“Then fucking _tell me_ what's _wrong_ instead of just shutting me out! I'm _trying,_ alright? I just—look, I hate to be the one to say it, but you need some fucking help. I can't fix your problems.”

“Did I _ask_ you to? I _know_ I need help, but _knowing_ is different than _doing._ I'm _scared,_ alright? I don't know what the fuck is happening to me, and I don't know _why_ any of this is happening to me.”

 

A few weeks later, you're sitting in the kitchen, reading through a newspaper, and trying not to cringe at all the Christmas bullshit, when Dallon pulls his usual routine of startling you by just popping up out of fucking nowhere to say, “Once a week.”

“Jesus Christ—give me some warning. Anyways, what the fuck are you talking about?”

“You're seeing a therapist, and no, you don't have a choice. I talked to Tyler, and you're not leaving the states, or New York, for at least the next three months. Once a week, on Fridays, at eleven in the morning, and if I have to, I'll start taking Fridays off to make sure you actually go.”

You're tired. Like, really tired. You don't even have the nerve to argue. “Alright then.”

“Is that it? No 'fuck off's or 'mind your own business's?”

You shrug. “I'm tired, dude. You chose a good time to corner me, I guess. Not in the mood to argue.”

“Next week.”

“What?”

“The thirteenth. First appointment.”

You grumble a bit, but don't say anything.

 

You end up crying at the first appointment. The lady—she's nice. You think her name is Robyn. She doesn't make any remarks, and, like you said—she's nice. Of course, Dallon is paying her a _lot,_ so that might have something to do with it, but you'll just—you'll take what you can get.

Robyn lets you talk, and she listens. Intently. She asks a few questions here and there, mostly about what'd happened, how you _felt,_ and then she asks about Dallon a little bit. You figure that since you live with him, and that since you pretty much just share a _life_ with him, it's worth it for her to ask.

She asks you about what he's _like._ “He's a good man. I don't really know how to describe him, I guess. He's not perfect, but he tries his best and he has good intentions from what I've seen. He's kind, a little naive sometimes, and he's nice. He's literally just an all around good guy.” She's writing in a notepad, and you want to question her, but you figure it's best just to leave it alone.

“And how do the two of you get along?”

“Uh. Fine? I mean, we bicker like an old married couple, or so my friends have told me, and we've only really had one big fight. It was just a shouting match, I guess, and we made up within a day anyways.” You don't actually say that the 'fight' was why you're even there. “ _Though,_ he _does_ need to quit putting his cold feet on me when I'm trying to sleep. Sometimes his feet get so cold that it feels like someone spilled _water_ in the bed.” You let out an over-dramatic sigh.

She laughs, then asks why you're there, and what you want to get out of it.

“I need help? I've been too scared to do anything, and I actually kind of didn't have a say in coming here in the first place.” And then you're wiping at your eyes again.

You leave the appointment with directions to quit thinking of yourself as a victim, but rather a survivor. It sounds corny as hell, but you figure that she knows what she's doing, so you make an effort.

 

About ten hours after the appointment is over, it's, well, ten at night, and you learn that Dallon is the kind of person who can totally have _discussions_ during sex. You're capable of it too, but it catches you off guard when he asks, “How was the thing?” The two of you have been fucking either of your brains out for the past four months, because, hey, there's a year of lost opportunities to make up for, yet you're just _barely_ learning this little bit of trivia.

You don't question him in favor of just answering the question while you have the chance. “Not—not what I expected.” It's kind of hard to focus on a conversation when you have a dick in your ass, if you're honest. “Mostly it— _fuck—_ mostly it was just me talking. _Oh god.”_

“What kind of talking?”

He's such an asshole. He just—there's no other way to describe him. He asks you a question, knowing full well you're going to have trouble answering properly in the first place, considering the two of you are going at it, but he _asks a question,_ then picks up the fucking pace. Pun intended. “Imagine— _fuck fuck fuck—_ imagine telling all of your s-secrets… To a complete stranger.”

He yanks on your hair, you moan like a whore, and then he lets out some sort of laugh, for which you pinch his arm for. “That _hurt,”_ and as if to emphasize his point, he yanks on your hair even _harder_ than before as he says the last word of that statement.

Two can play at that game. You run one of your hands through his hair, and you're pretty sure he wasn't expecting you to curl your hand into a fist before pulling _his_ hair, judging by the equally whoreish moan you get out of him. If nothing else, the two of you _do_ share a thing for having your hair pulled. “Then don't _laugh_ at me.”

His eyes squint for a split second before you pull him down by the hair into a rough kiss.

 

You give Dallon dirty looks the next morning, because, Jesus Christ, your ass is _sore,_ and your neck, plus your chest, is just covered with hickies. Thankfully, though, it's a Saturday, meaning he's making breakfast, and you're glad, because he's a helluva better chef than you are.

“What d'you want?”

“Eggs.”

“Just eggs?”

“I'll up it to an omelet.”

“Are you sure I can't make _anything_ else?”

“Why do you ask? Do you want something specific?” You have your arms crossed and you're raising your eyebrows at him. Usually he doesn't bug you about your breakfast choices unless he really wants something else. You're in the mood for an omelet, but you have no clue what he's in the mood for.

“I kind of want chocolate chip pancakes?” You get an awkward grin out of him.

“Then make some. If you don't give me a choice, then I'll settle for them. You doubt how lazy I am.” He rolls his eyes at you, but he's also smiling a little bit, so you let it slide.

“If you're _so lazy,_ how did you manage to live on your own for, like, two years?”

You take a seat at the dining table before responding; “Caffeine and perseverance, my friend. _Also_ praying that people left me decent tips.”

“I used to be an intern at the place I'm working now, and let me tell you—I fucking hated it. I didn't get paid for shit, and I was living in this shit hole apartment with my now ex-wife. I'm lucky my parents paid for my tuition, or I would've been screwed.”

“Maybe I should've pretended to be straight. I wonder how different my life would be if I did.”

“Probably shitty. I mean, I was miserable, and I didn't even know _why_ until one of my friends dragged me to a gay club, eons ago, where I let some dude I didn't even know blow me.”

You can't help but to giggle at least a little bit at him. “That sounds so cliché, no offense.”

“How did _you_ even figure out you weren't straight?”

“Watched some gay porn out of curiosity then popped a hard-on. Straight porn still got a rise out of me, so to speak, though, so I didn't really question it. Oh, man, _then_ I had a boyfriend for like, two and a half years. He was such a piece of shit.”

“How so?”

“He was abusive, I guess. I can't really explain it, but he put me down a lot and kind of isolated me from my other friends, save for Pete and _his_ friends, since I kept them under wraps around the shitty boyfriend.” You're tapping your fingers against the table now, and sighing. “Y'know, I thought I was going to marry him. I had so many romantic fantasies about my _future_ with him, but I had like, this moment of realization, which ended up with me breaking up with him.”

“Sounds like an asshole.”

“Also, by realization, I mean that I got plastered and ended up on the phone with _Josh,_ of all fucking people, and he pretty much chewed me a new asshole then told me to dump the guy. Imagine a plastered seventeen year old calling a tired and exhausted twenty-one year old to cry about a shitty boyfriend at four in the fucking morning.”

He huffs.

“So, I have a question. What's the most you've ever done with a guy? _Besides me.”_

“I don't think this is a breakfast appropriate conversation.”

You shout Tyler's name, and after a minute or two of silence, you say, “Tyler isn't here for once, so spill. I want some material for the spank bank.”

“You're so fucking insufferable.”

“Tell me, dude. I'm curious.”

“I let a guy suck me off and...” Oh, now he's getting flustered. You're totally enjoying making him squirm.

“And…?”

He holds up his hand and wiggles his fingers.

“No way. You're full of shit.”

“Seriously? You don't believe me?” And there he goes, a hand on his hip, and a spatula held up in the air. He has about thirty seconds to give you a look before the pancake burns.

“No, I don't.”

He scoffs. “Why the hell do you think I own a dildo? For decoration?”

“So, you mean to tell me that you've used dildos, but you've never asked me to top?”

“I didn't know you wanted to!”

“Of _course_ I want to. _I_ didn't know that _you_ wanted me to.”

“I feel like I'm on some queer sitcom, I swear to god.”

**[note: i hate putting notes in the middle of fics and i think this is the first time i have since 2011 but im about to fight past cade for the reference to my own fic lol. speaking of go read gay days of our lives it's a++, true quality content. a modern masterpiece. by that i mean its ok i guess idk its the reason i wrote cosmetic & endless.]**

\---

You get some tragic news on Tuesday; “So, uh, my parents want us to visit for Christmas.” It's the most tragic news in the world.

“You're not leaving New York. I mean, I can't actually stop you, but I'd prefer if you didn't.” He doesn't even look up from his paperwork.

“What? Do I just tell them 'no?'”

“If you want. They can come here, though.” He spares you a glance and a quick shrug before resuming his skimming.

“They go crazy on Christmas, dude. We're going to have to decorate the _whole fucking house_ or I'm never going to hear the end of it.”

“I think by now your parents ought to know that you shouldn't be expected to impress them.”

“Oh _really?_ How old are you?”

“Twenty-eight?”

“You basically had a _mental breakdown_ when your parents popped up, so keep your mouth shut. I still have seven years to get to your level of 'hey, I need to impress my parents.'”

He turns his head and squints at you. “You're a little shit, you know that?”

“I'm aware. What do I tell my parents when they ask why I can't go to Vegas?”

“The truth?”

“No.”

“Tell them you're working, then. Or that _I'm_ working. Or that we're both working. I'll pay for their flights if I have to.” He's trailing off a bit at the end, probably knowing full well what you're about to say next.

“ _I'll_ pay for it. They're both teachers and they have Christmas break, so they'll probably say yes.” You shrug, then sigh, before walking out of the room.

 

(Your parents are due in New York by Monday.)

 

 

Dallon has got to be the most inept man you've ever met. Your parents are supposed to show up at _any minute,_ yet he decides that this has to be the one _fucking_ time he puts dish soap in the dishwasher, meaning the whole kitchen is just fucking _flooded_ with suds.

“Seriously?! You're almost thirty, for Christ's sake! You have _got_ to know that you _never_ put dish soap in a dishwasher—and of _course_ you do it right when we're busy for half a fucking hour. Oh my _god._ ”

And then the _doorbell_ rings.

“They're _your_ parents.”

“They might be _your_ in-laws someday.”

The doorbell rings again.

“ _Dallon_ , just go get the fucking door while I go get towels.”

You're repeating an internal mantra of _'please don't be Tyler, please don't be Tyler,'_ as he sighs and throws his arms up in the air before complying. You're walking past him when he opens the door, and before they can ask any questions, you raise your voice to say, “ _That_ genius put dish soap in the dishwasher,” before going up the stairs to get the aforementioned towels.

You're sure either of you are a sight to behold. His jeans are rolled up to his knees, and the sleeves of his sweater are rolled up to his elbows. _You're_ not even wearing pants. All you're wearing is a pair of Calvin Klein briefs, which you look damn good in, by the way. Hell—your hair is still wet from your shower.

 

It takes about an hour and a change of clothes to be done with cleaning the soap suds out of the dishwasher and off of the kitchen floor. Your parents are more amused than anything, you believe.

You're miffed, and Dallon's embarrassed. You decide to embarrass him more by trying to give him a surprise kiss, but he dodges you like a ninja. You try a few more times, before giving up and saying, “Give me a fucking kiss, you asshole,” while laughing.

“I _was_ going to cook some spaghetti for dinner, but in light of the dishwasher incident, who's up for Olive Garden?” Dallon looks a little apprehensive after his question as he looks back and forth between your parents. They pretty much just shrug and agree to the idea.

 

Your father doesn't speak a whole lot throughout the meal, but you know he's listening, and watching, intently.

Your mother takes the chance to ask a few questions, of course. “Which one of you normally does the cooking?”

Dallon's quick to reply. “He can't even make toast.”

“Excuse you, _mister._ I make _amazing_ toast.” You scoff at him.

“The last two times you've tried to make toast you've set the fire alarms off.”

“I try, alright?”

Your mother is a bit of a weird woman, you guess. You think she's trying to see if the two of you are actually as great of a couple as either of you let on, but you still don't really know why she's asking a whole bunch of questions. You get it, but you're still confused.

She asks about who does the cleaning next, and you definitely catch the quick raise of the eyebrows Dallon gives her. Honestly, both of you clean. Neither of you are ones for leaving messes, and usually there isn't a need to go through the whole damn house to clean. If anything, it's like a team effort. Both of you clean, he does most of the cooking, you do most of the laundry, either of you take turns doing the dishes, if not just doing them together in the first place.

Dallon brings up a point that you totally glossed over as the conversation continues and she starts implying that one of you has to be the girl in the relationship. “I think gender roles are a little useless in this relationship, considering we're both men, and I honestly don't see why it has to be just _one_ of us doing all of the housework. It's unfair, if anything. I mean, I'm the CEO of a fuckin' company, pardon my French, and I'm busy almost all the time, but I still don't see why I'd have to just throw all of the housework onto him.” He makes a vague hand gesture towards you.

Later in the conversation, your father drops a comment. “Isn't it a thing that most CEO's are sociopaths or something?” You think he might be trying to lighten the mood, and it's also at that moment that you realize where some of your awkwardness comes from.

“I mean, most are, essentially, douche bags, and let's be real—I'm kind of a cunt at work. Both of you are teachers, right?”

They nod.

“Alright—you guys can't be overly lenient or nice when it comes to students. _I_ can't be lenient, or _nice,_ when it comes to this company. If I was, I'd make a shitty CEO. Empathy isn't that useful when you're trying to run a company, and when you have the responsibility of making, like, really major decisions and business deals. People take advantage.”

“How did you even go from a fuckin' stockbroker to a CEO, anyways?” You ask around a mouthful of ravioli.

“It's calling knowing people, having connections, being a bit of a manipulative shit, as well as having the perfect amount of confidence and charm.” He looks at you parents before jerking a thumb towards you; “He can see through my shit, though, so don't worry.”

“I've been able to see through your shit since the second I _met_ you. You're a horrible actor.”

He jabs you in the arm with his elbow.

\---

Your parents go to bed around ten, and you end up in the kitchen, leaning on one of the counters as you read some Buzzfeed article on your phone. You manage to get through half of the article, maybe more, maybe less, when you hear footsteps and feel a hand on your ass. _“Dallon.”_

“What?”

“Why is your hand on my ass?” You don't even look at him as you continue scrolling through the article.

“Because you have a nice ass and I like touching it?” As if to emphasize his point, he squeezes your ass just a little bit.

“Well, I can't argue with ya, because my ass _is_ pretty amazing.”

“What about _my_ ass?”

You turn your head to get a glimpse of him. “Realistically, it could use some work. You should do some more squats.”

He scoffs, then _slaps_ your ass.

“Is insulting your ass what it's going to take for you to spank me?” You ask as you bat his hand away after noticing that it was lingering.

He snorts then lets out a quick huff of laughter. “I mean, if you're into that, all you had to do was ask.”

“Nah, I'm not into that. It was a joke.” You shrug then resume 'reading' the article. (By reading, you mean skimming.)

He wraps his arms around your waist and pulls you a little closer to him, before you feel his chin tucked into that place between your neck and your shoulder. “We should go to bed.”

“Give me incentive. I'm having fun reading this shitty article.”

“We're both tired and I need someone to put my cold feet on.”

“Is that why you love me? So you can put your cold feet on me?”

He nods a little bit. “Yep. That's exactly why.”

“Nice to know I'm appreciated.”

“Anytime.”

\---

Things you probably shouldn't have let your parents talk you into: Going to mass the day before Christmas.

You're not religious, and they know this, but fucking _Dallon_ said that if it makes them happy, then you should do it. Your logic, though, is if you're going down, then he's going down with you, so you pretty much force him to tag along.

Sitting in the back of a Mormon church trying to discreetly hold hands with your boyfriend is literally almost the ballsiest and awkwardest thing you can do. You lean over and whisper, “Didn't you get excommunicated at some point?” to him.

“Yeah, but this wasn't the church I went to,” he whispers back. You inaudibly sigh before leaning your head on his shoulder. You're in an affectionate mood at the worst time.

You get more and more stressed as time goes on. Listening to someone preaching, and hearing hushed scoffs or remarks from other people, not to mention receiving dirty looks once in a while can do that to a person. Churches just kind of freak you out in general, and, well, this experience isn't helping you. It really isn't.

Stress, plus an anxiety disorder, isn't a good combination. It really isn't. Dallon ends up falling asleep at some point, and you still have your head on his shoulder when you start to tear up. You've never actually cried in a church before, but there's a first time for everything, right?

You deal with it for probably about ten minutes before nudging Dallon awake. He gets one good look at you before picking up either of your coats and motioning you to follow him after he stands up.

 

You end up sitting in the car with him while either of you wait for your parents. “Did something happen?”

You try your best to explain what'd happened, and, in your opinion, you fail miserably. You're pretty sure that if you hadn't have left the church when you did, though, you'd probably be having a full-on ugly crying and dry heaving panic attack. That doesn't mean you aren't hunched over with your head on the dashboard trying not to hyperventilate, though.

“You wanna ditch your parents at the house whenever mass ends and go get something to eat?”

“It's the twenty-fourth. Nothing's going to be open.”

He nudges you in the arm. “I'm trying to be a good boyfriend. Indulge me.”

You turn your head a bit to look at him. “You're like… really gay.”

“You're an asshole.”

“Aren't you trying to be a good boyfriend?”

“You're testing my limits, man. There's a fine line between being a good boyfriend and protecting my dignity.”

You roll your eyes. “You never had any to begin with.”

He _scoffs,_ then reaches over to _tickle_ you. “Take it back!”

You try prying his hands away from your sides, but he's stronger than you are, so you fail. Miserably. “No! Quit tickling me, you asshole!”

“Not until you take it back!” You're on the verge of tears, again, due to laughing so hard, he's got this dumb, wide grin, filled with golden sunshine, plastered across his face, and that's when it actually _hits_ you. You're in love. _Oh god._

You don't let that thought hold you back, though. “Never! You have absolutely _no_ dignity, and I'm not changing my mind!”

“Fine! I'm breaking up with you!” He doesn't mean it, and you know it. He's laughing and grinning way too much to mean it.

You manage to grab him by the wrists, stopping him from tickling you as you respond. “No you're not, dude. You love me.”

He scrunches his face up, and sighs. “You're right. I can't argue with that.”

You let go of his wrists so you can place your hands on his cheeks to pull him into a kiss. It's sweet, short, and leaves you grinning like an idiot. “Luckily, I love you too.”

 

You're up a little late at night, getting yourself a glass of water, when you pass by the guest room, only to hear your parents arguing in hushed tones. You put your ear against the door, and you can't quite make anything out, until your mother raises her voice a little bit; “He's in _love._ Why do you have a _problem_ with that?”

“I _don't_ have a problem with it—”

“Then why are you going on and _on_ about them?”

“That—that little stunt they pulled at that church today—it was _undignified.”_

_What stunt? Jesus Christ._

Your mother seems to have a psychic connection with you when she asks, “What _stunt?”_

He says something about how the two of you were _too close._

“They're _together._ They're _young._ There's nothing _wrong_ with it.”

You decide to save yourself from any more hurt feelings by just going back to your own room. Fuck the water, and fuck your dad.

\---

The bed dips a bit as he lays back down about ten minutes earlier than you were expecting. He drinks water, like, ridiculously slowly. So slowly. You don't know how he deals.

You ask, “Where's the water?” in probably the groggiest voice ever as you scoot towards him to sneak in some cuddles. You're an affectionate guy. It can't be helped. Cuddling is inevitable, cold hearted CEO or not.

“Fuck the water.” Oh, shit, he's busting out the grumpy tone, meaning _something_ happened.

“What did water ever do to you?”

“Nothing. My fuckin' parents.” He grunts and rolls over to take on his usual position of little spoon. “I was eavesdropping and I think my dad was saying something homophobic beforehand, then he mentioned, like, the church thing. My mom was chewing him out about it, though, so I guess that's something.”

“They'll be gone by Friday.” You like his mom, but you don't like his dad. His mom? She's nice, and she tries. You can respect that. His dad is just—he's a cunt. You had a conversation with him about football back in July, but that hardly makes you like him. He was impressed by your knowledge of the game, but that didn't stop him from being such an _asshole._

You get so _bothered_ by the fact that his parents have the gall to make him question whether or not they even love him. Adult or not, that's a shitty fucking thing to do to your kid. He doesn't actually say anything like that very often, but, Jesus, it pisses you the hell off. Yes, you're a protective boyfriend. No, you don't care. If anything, after the past year, you have a right to be protective of him.

He makes a small noise of acknowledgment before saying something else. “I think, for once, I'm glad that my friends are going to drop in. I mean, I'm always glad, but I'll be _super_ glad this time, you know?”

“I get that. I wonder how Pete's going to be with your parents. Didn't you say he was basically your mother or something?”

“It's the truth, dude. He's pretty protective of me, and I'm praying he doesn't start shit. Though, you've gotta consider that there's going to be,” he pauses for a second, “nine people in the house.”

“You've said he's started fist fights in rooms of fifty people or more.”

“Okay, but he was also seventeen I think. Dude, when he had his kid, he just _changed.”_

“You know, you never explained why he even _has_ a kid.”

He lets out a pretty deep breath. “It's not a complicated story I guess, but it's kind of a heavy one. He had a girlfriend in high school, and like, she got pregnant, right? Pete freaked the fuck out, and I think he almost just got the hell out of dodge, but Patrick, or Tyler, I can't remember, but one of them chewed him a new asshole and told him to be responsible or whatever. Anyways, that's not really important, but when the girlfriend had the kid, she _died._ Like, straight up just _died.”_

“Jesus Christ.”

“Pretty sure he was eighteen at the time. Anyways, he, Patrick, Tyler, and Josh moved to New York around the same time and I _think_ they all might have lived together for a few years because no one could afford _not to._ Dude, when he and Patrick _finally_ fucking got together, I just about yelled in relief. I spent _four years_ dealing with their pining. I dunno, they were already best friends, like, _super_ best friends, so bumping that up to boyfriends, then eventually engaged, wasn't really a big deal I guess? I mean, everyone was expecting it anyways.” He's mumbling, for the most part, and you hold him closer. He's way too adorable for his own good.

“You should write a novel about that. It'd be a best seller for sure. Maybe they'd even make a movie about it.”

You can sense the eye roll, but also the cute little smile on his dumb face. “I'll look into it.”

\---

You manage to squeeze in another four hours before waking up to feel _s_ _omeone_ kissing the back of your neck. “Dude, are you coming onto me? My parents are literally a room over.”

You get pinched in the side. “I'm trying to be romantic about waking you up.”

“If you want to be romantic, wake me up with a blow job.” You grunt and roll from your side, onto your stomach.

He groans, and retaliates by laying on top of you. “You're no fun.”

“If I was fun, you'd be a mess. I'm the reason that there's stability in our lives.”

“I could survive just fine on my own, thank you very much.” He pulls his usual move of nipping at your neck.

“Have you ever lived on your own?” You turn your head enough to look at him.

“The longest I've lived alone was, like, four months. I could _totally_ manage myself.”

“… There were four months between the time your ex-wife left you and the time _I_ moved in. That was your only time living alone, wasn't it?” You scoff.

“Look. _Look._ I can't even defend myself, but _look.”_

“You're literally a millionaire, but you _totally_ couldn't live without me. You live by the _grace_ of me.”

He snorts. “It's the opposite, dude. At least _I_ can actually cook something without setting the fire alarm off.”

“That was one time. We ended up having to get a new toaster anyways. Also, get off me, you load.” You move enough to knock him off of you and onto his back.

He whines, and just about nudges you hard enough to push you off the bed. Though, by that logic, it'd be a shove rather than a nudge. You underestimate his strength sometimes. “How long do we have until Tyler shows up?”

You look over to his side of the bed at the alarm clock. “Well, it's seven, so I'd say thirty minutes to an hour. Maybe an hour and a half if we're lucky.”

“How about your parents?”

“Either negative time or two hours.”

“So, theoretically, I could make breakfast for _just_ us, and not have to put in the effort for more people.”

“Theoretically, yes. I'd love a theoretical omelet about the size of a tortilla so I could theoretically make myself a shitty breakfast burrito.”

As he sits up with a grunt, he lets out a dry, “Glad to see my sophisticated tastes are rubbing off on you.”

“Oh, piss off. If you had the choice, you'd live off of pizza and Chinese takeout.” You roll your eyes at him as you sit up yourself.

 

The two of you neglect to take a shower in favor of getting into the kitchen before either your parents get up or before Tyler shows up. (Tyler's a great guy, but you hate that he's early for _everything._ You told him that coming over around ten would've been just fine, but of course, you knew full well he'd show up at _least_ an hour early.)

 

After everyone shows up, after gifts are exchanged, and after Dallon and your mother slave over a meal, everyone is sat down around the table, eating and talking like a family. Even as a child, you never really felt as if you belonged with your immediate family, and you kind of get why now.

It's nice to be around your best friends, people who _love you_ , and, excuse the cheese, but, _the love of your life,_ plus your parents, who are actually behaving.

You're still giving your father looks once in a while, just waiting for him to say something, to drop some snide yet subtle comment, and, actually, he does at some point, despite managing to behave for most of the dinner. It wasn't as bad as you were expecting, but everyone, even your mother, goes silent the second it's said.

You watch Tyler, Pete, and Dallon look back and forth between each other, trying to decide which one of them are gonna say something. Tyler gives both of them a subtle shake of the head before leaning back in his seat, and you give Pete a similar shake of the head when he makes eye contact with you, as if to ask permission to say something. You know Pete's the kind of guy who's going to end up shouting, and you really want to avoid hearing him going after your dad.

The only noises in the room for a few minutes are the scraping of silverware against plates, and the occasional, “Hey, can you pass that?” before Dallon finally says something.

“Alright, look, I get it—you don't approve of the gay thing—but you're a guest in _my_ house _,_ so lose the pissy attitude. I have no problem whatsoever asking you to leave and go back to your own home. I was nice and respectful at _your_ house, and given that you're at _least_ thirty years older than me, I'd expect the same behavior, so shut the _fuck_ up.”

Your father looks to you, then to your mother, only getting even stares in response. Dallon's right, and your mother knows he is too. It's kind of funny to see someone putting your father in his place.

Your father goes back and forth with him for a few minutes before Dallon's standing up, saying, “Come with me,” as he heads out of the kitchen and presumably to a different room that they can't be heard from.

Once they're gone, Josh makes a dry comment. “It's not Christmas until there's a fight.”

You snort, Tyler elbows him, Pete makes an accidental raspberry noise with his lips, and Patrick bites his cheek, until your mother holds up her wine glass, saying, “Amen to that,” before everyone ascends into a pretty bad laughing fit. You hope your father hears everyone, because, Jesus, he's being such an _ass._


	15. Chapter 15

After the holidays, and after what you're going to assume is a yearly breakdown in January, it's February. After February, you quit going to therapy, because, hey, you still don't want to go, but the deal was three months, and you prefer to follow through on your promises.

In March, Dallon takes a few months off of work to accompany you, Tyler, and Josh on a 'world trip.' By world trip, you mean that you're fucking busy for two months doing _model things._ Fashion shows, photo shoots, etc. etc. You're also invited to some movie premiere, and you kind of need Dallon to tag along to, basically, be arm candy. Tyler tells you that it's good publicity when you try to back out of it. He also kind of bites your head off and gives you a few dirty looks.

 

First Stop: Japan.

 

Japan is the reason Josh is with you. Tyler only knows spoken Japanese, you only know English, and English, nor French, are going to help Dallon here. Anyways, the point is—Josh knows how to speak and _read_ Japanese, and all of you need to survive somehow.

You were stressed a little in the first place once the four of you are actually at the hotel. Not eating for two days from just being _busy,_ dealing with _family drama,_ and being in a foreign country that doesn't have English as a first language can do that to a person. To add to your growing pile of shit, you accidentally pick a fight with Dallon within the first two hours of being at the hotel.

Or, well, actually, you think he picks a fight with _you._ So, to clarify things—you're stressed and in a shitty mood, and he's just _tired_ and a little out of his element, so tossing all of that together can result in a few insults that have a not-so-great effect on you. Sometimes when you're in a shitty mood, you complain. A lot. You were complaining on the plane, you were complaining on the cab ride to the hotel, you were complaining during the walk from the lobby to the room, and you were complaining for about five or ten minutes after actually being in the room before _someone_ snaps at you, saying, “Will you just shut the fuck _up?_ I get it—you're in a shitty mood—but shut the fuck _up_ for one _minute_ and let me relax without having to hear you bitching about every single fucking thing wrong with the world.”

“I'm… sorry?” You can't really handle being yelled at. If someone so much as raises their voice at you, then there's at least a 50/50 chance of you crying. (Translation: having a panic attack. You feel as if 'panic attack' sounds a little too serious and special-snowflakey, but, _technically,_ that's what it is.) You make eye contact with him for maybe five seconds before averting your gaze and continuing to unpack your things and change your clothes.

When you go to lift your suitcase onto the bed so you can sift through it for a change of clothes, your left hand decides to cramp up and _not_ cooperate with you. You let out a quiet, _“Shit,”_ under your breath when the suitcase, the shitty fucking suitcase, goes back down to the floor with a thud, and taking you with it. He goes to help you up, but you bat him away, saying, “Don't fucking touch me.”

His hand basically flies away from you, and you get to feel bad for maybe a second, up until he responds with, “Quit being an asshole.”

You scrub your hands down your face once you're upright, and you give him one of the most venomous looks you've ever given _anybody. “I'm_ the asshole? Go take a look in the fucking mirror, because _you're_ the asshole right now.”

“Yeah, _you're_ the asshole.” Oh, wow, he has his hands on his hips. _What a fucking child._

“You're the one who yelled at me out of basically _nowhere_ just because you were fed up with me pissing and moaning about every single fucking thing when you could've just asked _. Quietly.”_

The two of you go back and forth for a while, before you eventually kick your shoes off and rip your coat off before leaving, and slamming the door behind you. It takes you about five minutes to get to Tyler's room so you can bitch to _him_ instead of Dallon.

\---

Okay, look, you can admit it—you fucked up. You shouldn't have yelled at him, you shouldn't have told him to shut up about his hand, you shouldn't have called him an asshole, and you shouldn't have kept egging him on when you could have just as easily deescalated the situation. You _know_ that he hates being yelled at, you _know_ that he's insecure about how much he can talk if someone doesn't stop him, you _know_ he hates pissing you off (which is a hard thing to do, and, if you're honest—you're not mad, but rather tired and frustrated), but—look—moral of the story is that you feel super guilty and super fucking bad.

You pace around the room for ten minutes before deciding to clean, and organize things in the room. You dig through both yours and his suitcases and place either of the extra pairs of shoes either of you had packed near the door, you hang the few dress shirts, blazers, and slacks you'd brought with you in the shitty little wardrobe that's in the room. Hair brushes, toothpaste, and other cosmetic supplies, that are mostly his, are placed in the bathroom, before you're back in the actual room, trying to fix the bed to where it's not pretty much tucked in so far that it's basically a prison.

You figure he probably went down a floor or two to Tyler's room, and you don't know if he's going to be there for the rest of the night, or if he's going to come back in a few hours, or what the hell's going to happen. You also figure the fight could've been worse, because, hey, you've had a few academy award winners with your ex-wife, and this wasn't nearly as bad.

Maybe taking a shower will somewhat help you calm down. Similar to every other hotel you've stayed at, the water pressure in this one is so shitty that, if you didn't know any better, you could've sworn someone was pissing on you. It was warm, though, and you're pretty sure it helped draw most of the tension out of your shoulders. Jesus—for a twenty-eight year old, you're, like, way too tense. Of course, basically being in charge of a huge company can do that to a man, especially to someone so _young._ Brendon gives you shit about being old, but you're still young. Not _that_ young, but you're definitely not _old._

You spend a good half hour in the shower, and after you're wearing a pair of sweatpants that you think are his, you start pacing around the room _again._ Eventually you hear the doorknob turning, then the door opening, before you're faced with Brendon, who looks scared out of his fucking mind, and Tyler standing in the hallway giving you a dirty look, while mouthing, “You're the asshole.”

\---

Of course, the first thing out of your mouth once the door is closed behind you is, “Please tell me you don't hate me.”

“Oh, for fuck's sake—I'm in love with you.”

And _alright_ then, you weren't expecting _that_ to come out of his mouth.

“Look—I'm sorry, I was being an asshole, and I shouldn't have snapped at you like that.”

“I'm not going to argue with you on that one.”

You get a slight roll of the eyes and a half grin out of him before he's across the room, tugging you into a pretty tight hug. You get a smooch on the top of your head, and a whispered, “I love you more than you can imagine.”

You let out a mix between a groan and a whine. “Quit being sweet. I'm going to blush.”

“No. I like it when you blush, because you're, like, really cute.”

Okay, alright, you're not mad at him, and you don't really think you were in the first place, but you're grinning like a fucking idiot. “You're cute too.”

 

You stand in the lobby of the hotel, with Dallon, of course, for a good ten minutes the next morning before you hear Tyler raising his voice in another language that isn't any of the ones you've heard him speak, on the phone, as _he_ walks into the lobby, followed by a tired, and slightly pissed off looking Josh. You give Tyler a weird look, that he doesn't catch, then you turn your head to Josh, to mouth, “What the fuck?” at him.

He holds a finger up, burps, then steps over to quietly say, “He's on the phone with his dad.”

You wince, and you hear Dallon click his tongue before asking, “What language is he speaking?”

“Arabic. I know a little bit from just being around him, so, uh, I think it has something to do with a family reunion. Like, their conversation does. I'm fuckin' tired.”

 

The four of you go out for breakfast, then Tyler and Josh part ways to go do their own thing. You kind of wish at least one of them would've stuck with you, since neither you or Dallon know Japanese, but Dallon's confident enough to get around. Or so you hope.

 

You tease Dallon about being a gay stereotype, and although he denies your accusations vehemently, he definitely doesn't help his case when he says, “We're going shopping.”

“Alright. What kind of shopping?”

“Clothes shopping. We can buy an extra suitcase if we need to, but, if we just shop in Japan in the first place, we don't have to pay for shipping or wait a month for orders to arrive.”

You groan and flop back onto the bed in the room. “Do I have a choice?”

He sighs and lays on his stomach next to you, head propped up with one arm, and with a hand brushing your hair out of your face. It's starting to get a little long again, and you make a mental note to go look for references the next time you get a hair cut. “If you really don't want to go, then I'm not forcing you, _but_ you haven't given me a chance to spend any money on you because you don't want to let me _spoil_ you.”

You get him in the ribs with an elbow. “Didn't I tell you to quit being sweet?”

“Yes, and I told you 'no.'”

“Do you want to buy me things because you feel bad about last night?” You're raising your eyebrows _just_ a bit at him.

“That's definitely part of it. Another part of it is because I haven't really done anything nice for you in a while.”

“You've been busy with work, though.”

“Yeah, but you always do nice little things for me, and I haven't had the chance to do anything in return.”

“You don't _have_ to do anything in return. I just like seeing you happy. Whenever I do something you always get this dumb smile on your face and I love it.”

“At least I'm not the one who cries.”

“Fuck off, dude. I get overwhelmed.” You roll over and bury your face into his chest, groaning. _He's insufferable sometimes. Why do I love him?_

 

Dallon needs to learn not to test you.

Present time, the two of you are dicking around in a shopping district that you cant remember the name of. One of the shops has a section for men's underwear, but it's not the typical one color kind of underwear you see in America. _These_ ones are patterned with cute things. If you didn't know better, you'd say they were meant for women, but the way they looked made it obvious they were meant for men.

The point is, though, Dallon jokingly holds up a pair that looks, like, really fruity, and gives you a suggestive look. When he goes to put them back on the rack, though, you snatch them from his hand. “I was _kidding.”_

“I know you were, but you're buying them for me anyways.”

You try not to laugh when he goes red in the face. He asks you to at least pick something other than the underwear, and you almost want to say no, but you decide to take pity on him and pick out a sweatshirt. (Plus a few other pairs of underwear, just to watch him squirm.) _(I wonder what he'd do if I modeled them for him. Hm.)_

 

A few hours and probably two thousand dollars of shopping later, either of you are _finally_ back at the hotel, and Dallon suggests ordering room service and having a makeshift date. “Having Josh or Tyler tag along to a restaurant would kill the mood, so we might as well, dude.”

The food could be better, but you're pretty much starving, so it'll have to do. Besides, you don't really get time to think about the food, because _someone_ starts up a deep conversation. (Of course, it's one that will take a ridiculous turn at some point.) “Why do you even like me?”

You shrug. “I just do.”

 _“Why_ though?”

“Like I said, I just do. There isn't really a _why_ to it. I just kind of liked you as soon as I met you. I didn't really think anything would happen, considering we were _kind of_ having an affair, but things did happen. You swooped in and made me fall in love with you because of your dumb smiles and your dumb face, plus your shitty jokes. I dunno, you're nice to me, too. I actually feel _loved_ and _appreciated_ whenever I'm around you, so, you know, that's a nice feeling.” You resort to looking into your drink in favor of looking him in the eyes for a few minutes. “Why do _you_ like me? I mean, I'm pretty fuckin' annoying and I come with a lot of baggage.”

“Oh, lay off. You're not annoying and I wouldn't be here if I couldn't deal with your 'baggage.' Anyways, it's the same reason as you, I guess. There isn't a particular reason. At first I kind of just liked you because you were cute and funny. Also, you didn't really expect anything from me and you never _asked_ me for anything, and I don't know why, but that kind of just struck a chord with me.” It's his turn to shrug. “You don't push me around either.”

“What do you mean?” You quirk an eyebrow.

“Like, I mean, you don't try to push me into doing things if I'm uncomfortable for the most part. I can kinda just be myself around you too. I haven't ever really had something like that before? God, I was so fucking miserable up until I met you. Like, I had to sneak around if I wanted to do anything _gay,_ and—oh my god—I don't know if I told you about this, but I was getting off to some porn, right? Of course, given that I'm gay, I was watching gay porn because, well, straight porn is kind of gross, but I forgot to close the tab, and I _know_ my ex-wife saw it. She didn't say anything, and I sure as hell wasn't going to, but she _saw it.”_

You start giggling both out of shock since that was basically out of nowhere, and because, come on, it's funny. “Dude, you should've been careful.”

“I _was_ careful. That was the _one time_ I forgot to close the tab.”

“Can I ask what kind of porn you even watch?”

He huffs. “I dunno. Usually not the professional ones, because in almost every single video the guy that's like—” He does the hand gesture for sex. Like, finger in the hole. That gesture. Everyone knows that gesture. “--was _never_ turned on or anything? That's totally a boner killer knowing someone can't keep it up while getting fucked.”

You nod. “I'm about the same, honestly. It's like—if they aren't turned on, then I assume it doesn't feel good or whatever? It's just a huge turn off.”

 

The rest of Japan goes about as expected. You do your thing, then you get another few days off before having to hop on a flight all the way from Tokyo to London.

The flight from Japan to England is a little… eventful. It's actually boring as shit, but near the end of the flight, you catch Dallon with his head back and his mouth wide open, snoring slightly. You kick Tyler in the shin, and motion for him to hand you his bottled water. He immediately knows what you're about to do, so he happily complies.

You quietly uncap it, and pour just the tiniest bit of it into his mouth. He wakes up immediately coughing and spitting before giving _you_ a dirty look, especially since you're laughing your ass off. “I could've fucking choked, you prick.”

Once you've recovered, you put a hand on his shoulder, and reply with, “But you didn't. Lighten up a little and accept the fact that when I see an opportunity, I have to take it.”

He's glaring, but saying, “You're lucky I love you.”

You kiss him.

Tyler gags.

 

You've walked in a few fashion shows, and they're all about the same. You look and act cold and emotionless, you're not allowed to falter for even a second, not to mention that your posture has to be absolutely perfect, and you absolutely _cannot_ look at the ground, which is absolute torture for you, since you're a clumsy shit. Luckily, though, this time you're not wearing shoes with large soles or heels.

You don't really even know why you enjoy modeling. You bitch and moan about it, but you secretly love it. It's stressful, you end up having to maintain a most likely ridiculously unhealthy weight, and you have to be 'fashionable' in public, per Tyler's demand, but, damn, you just fucking love it.

It might have to do with the aspect of adventure. You get to travel the whole world, with one of your best friends, sometimes your boyfriend, and you get to make so many new friends, or so you'd like to think. (You meet nice people, but that doesn't mean you particularly trust them.) You also get to try all sorts of food, and experience different cultures. It's just—it's fucking awesome, if anything.

And, of course, you like the money. For the most part, there really wasn't a whole lot to be made, at first, _but,_ you have Tyler, who knows people and is ridiculously good at convincing people to do miraculous things, so you get some pretty plum gigs. You're never going to be Mister Forty Million Dollars a Year, unlike your boyfriend, but you're still making a pretty decent living.

 

As usual, things _always_ come back to Dallon. He's sitting right in the front of the damn crowd, _staring at you,_ with a critical eye. If you could, you'd give him a dirty look, but of course, you cant, lest you get your head chopped off by both Tyler and the probably fifteen hundred other people running the whole damn show. You're glad he's not so far up your ass he can't be critical, but he's still making you anxious.

He's the one person you try your best to impress. You don't know _why_ it's him, but it is. You keep trying to prove yourself, even though you don't _have_ to. You've been with the guy for just about two years. You'd figure that, by now, you'd be done trying to impress him and make him proud of you, yet here you are, fretting about that exact fucking issue.

 

Back at the hotel, you get in a quick shower, and once you're actually back in the room, you get the chance to ask, “How did I do?”

“What do you mean?”

“Earlier. At the show. How did I do?”

“You were as gorgeous, pretty, and beautiful as you always are.”

You raise your brows a bit. Which is the usual. You raise your eyebrows at him a lot. “Pretty? I don't think I've ever heard that one out of you before.”

“Yes, I said that you're pretty.”

A noise of acknowledgment makes its way out of your mouth before you're telling him to scoot over in the bed, and explaining that you're lazy when he asks why you couldn't have just walked around to the other side. As he's tugging you closer, trying to be discreet about wanting to cuddle, you ask, “Why do you think I'm _pretty?”_

“Because you are.”

“Yeah, but what about me is pretty?” You're fishing for compliments, of course.

“Everything you could think of. I'm typical, but, personally, I like your eyes. I like how they look in the sun, because they turn gold, and it's, like, totally cool.”

“ _Your_ eyes are prettier, though.”

“I disagree with you, but this isn't about me. This is about you and your pretty eyes.” You literally want to gag. _He's being so corny._

You grunt. The two of you lay there in silence for a while, kind of just enjoying each others company, and he's probably actually trying to sleep, but your mind is obviously running about ten miles a second. You decide to ask, “What about my _personality_?” in probably one of the most mock-pitiful voices ever.

“What about it?”

You pinch him lightly. “What do you like about it? I want you to feed my ego.”

He snorts, and runs a hand through your hair before answering. “I think you're a charming and talented young man, and you're also very loving, compassionate, plus kind, not to mention that you're funny as hell.”

“Why are you so nice?”

“Well, you asked me to feed your ego, so I figured that it was the least I could do. I'm also a tad bit horny.” There's a kiss being pressed into the back of your neck as he presses his hips against your ass a little bit.

“Why are you always the horny one? I'm twenty one, dude. _I'm_ supposed to be the horny one.”

“You're hot and I'm old and lonely?”

 _“You're_ hot, and you're not _that_ old, nor are you lonely.”

He grunts and _then_ you feel a hand running over the front of your underwear. “I'm a solid seven, _at best._ You're a strong twenty at the very least.” There's lips on the back of your neck again, definitely leaving marks, and obviously leaving you an absolute mess. “Also, I _do_ get lonely when you're away from home.”

“I was home constantly for, like, four months. You've had time to get past it.”

He shifts his hips against your ass again as he says, “I took advantage of a few opportunities if I recall.”

“More than a few, if my ass has anything to say about it.”

 


	16. Chapter 16

Two months later, you're in London. Again. Except this time, you're not the one who's working. _You're_ basically in London again to be arm candy because _someone_ (Dallon) has some big important business dinner to attend and you're apparently needed as moral support. And so that he doesn't look like the odd one out without a _date._

There's a girl without someone with her, which isn't a bad thing, because, hey, girls can _totally_ go to business dinners. It's just not a thing you've really seen a lot over the past year or two.

The group of uptight businessmen had spread thin at some point, leaving you alone with Dallon and the girl at a small table. You'd zoned out, due to not really being interested in what was going on, but you zone _in_ when you hear, “So, you're not married? Lucky me.”

You decide to dig your heel into Dallon's foot before he responds. _He's dug himself into too many holes pretending to be straight out of reflex._ You get pinched in the thigh and cast a dirty look in response to the heel digging. “Ah, yeah, not currently.”

 _Oh my god. You're gay. Tell her you're gay. Save yourself the shit storm, Dallon._ You could probably easily solve all of this by leaning over to give him a kiss before conveniently getting up to grab a few more drinks, but as mentioned, you're an asshole, and you kind of want to watch him crash and burn. “Not currently?”

She leans in, and she's doing the thing that girls do where they press their boobs together just a little bit to try and get the guy's attention. Too bad _you're_ not the rich business man, because maybe _then_ she'd be having some luck, what with you actually being attracted to women and all. “Nah. There was a conflict of… _interest_ with my last wife.” _More like_ _a_ _similar interest._

The girl rests her chin in her palm and bats her eyelashes a bit. “Oh? That's too bad. For her, at least.” And there comes the playful smirk.

“I guess. I think we're both happier.” He shrugs and knocks back a pretty decent swig of his shitty wine. He puts a hand on your thigh to squeeze it before he continues. “I'm assuming you're not… married?” After she confirms that she is, in fact, not married, Dallon decides to ask, “Why the interest in my marital status?”

You listen to her try to flirt with him, and _eventually_ she gets frustrated enough with her lack of headway to leave. You kick Dallon in the leg. “Why can't you just tell people you're gay?”

He hisses a bit and rubs his leg. “What if she's someone important?”

“Oh, please, her dress comes from a fucking Walmart. She's not _important.”_

“You never know, dude. You have every cent I've ever made in the past ten years at _your_ disposal, but you still shop at H&M.”

“I'm a _model,_ and the last time I touched your credit card was when I left mine at the house, like, a few weeks ago. I paid you back anyways.”

He nudges you in the arm. “You should totally spend my money.”

“On what? I don't even shop that much. You should spend your own money.”

“Like you said—on _what?_ The most I buy is a pack of cigarettes once every two months or so.”

“You have more money in your bank account than either of us can even comprehend. There is _no way_ either of us could spend even a fourth of that money.”


	17. Chapter 17

The thirteenth of August, 2014, is a train wreck. It's a Wednesday, and it's in the middle of the first full week you'd had off in at least five or six months. Similar to most of the other weekdays you have free, you spend it curled up on the couch, watching Keeping Up With The Kardashians, and sipping at an energy drink with an elaborate system of straws that allow you to suck and lay down at the same time. _If only it was this easy to suck a dick laying down. If it was, Dallon's life would be a helluva lot more interesting._

The house phone rings, and you lay on your back for a few minutes, trying to debate on whether or not to answer it, then only doing so when it rings for the third time. It's someone from a hospital, and, basically, Dallon isn't picking up his phone, even though he _really_ needs to, and the person wont tell you what's going on since you're not, at the very least, married to Dallon.

He does show up at the house a few hours later, and you only get in a weak, “Hey,” before he's flopping down onto the couch with his face buried into your lap. He stays like that for twenty minutes or so before saying, “My parents are dead.”

“I'm—I'm sorry— _what?”_

“Drunk driver. Both dead on impact.”

“I guess that'd explain why a hospital called the house, like, three times...”

He nods.

 

You end up being the one to identify the bodies since he doesn't have the nerve to do it. It's a grotesque sight, and you _almost_ vomit. Almost. Not quite, though. The next week goes by too quickly, and it's a weird one. You zone out for most of it, but check back in long enough every once in a while to help with planning the funeral. Dallon's ex wife gets invited, and you're not really looking forward to it.

 

After the funeral, a bunch of the people end up at Dallon's house. Well, most everyone does, actually. It's a funeral thing, you think. You don't exactly have a ton of experience with funerals, since the last one you'd went to had been your grandmother's, in, like, 1995. You were three. You remember a bunch of people had ended up going back to your parents house afterward, though, so you figure that this is similar to that.

It doesn't take long for you to slip away from Dallon so you can stand on the patio and smoke a few cigarettes while waiting for everyone to clear out. You probably get about half way through a cigarette before you hear the door opening. When you turn your head, you're expecting Dallon, but obviously he's not who you're met with. Instead, there's a pretty lady there, asking if she can bum a smoke. “Uh. Sure.” You flip the top of the pack open, and hold it towards her, then you hand her your lighter.

“Thank you so much. I left my purse in my car, and, well, his family is just a little overbearing.”

You just nod a little slowly. She's not wrong, but you have no idea who the hell she is. “Yeah. I can't argue with you.”

“Shit—you're probably his cousin or something, aren't you?”

You snort. “Uh, not quite. I'm Brendon the boyfriend.”

Her eyes widen. “Damn. Really?” She shakes the hand you hold out to her before introducing herself as Breezy, the ex wife.

You speak with her for fifteen minutes or so. Honestly, the conversation is pleasant, and she's like, really nice. Dallon does slip out eventually, and the first thing out of his mouth is, “Since _when_ do you smoke?'

“Since when do _you?”_ She looks from the cigarette in _his_ hand, to his face, then back to the cigarette.

“Would this be a bad time to mention that he owes me, like, a hundred bucks for some of the weed he copped from me last week?” You give him a very, _very_ dirty look. You're the kind of guy who can share, but you're stingy on weed. Especially since the guy you used to get it from got busted.

“Fuck you, Brendon.”

“So, you're gay and you're a stoner. What else were you hiding from me?” She raises an eyebrow, clicks her tongue, and you start laughing.

“I'm not a _stoner.”_

“You fucking _liar.”_ You scoff at him now. “You told me you were a 'bit of a stoner' in college last April.”

“Past tense.”

 _“_ _College?_ You really are a liar. How many times were you actually stoned when I asked?”

He squints at her as he finally gets around to lighting his cigarette. “Most of the time. I have no idea why you even believed me when I said I wasn't.”

“I never said I _did._ You're just hard to argue with.”

“Please, he's such a pushover. You just have to know _where_ to push.”

She's turning towards you now, eyebrows high on her face. “Really?”

You nod. “I've learned that threatening to withhold sex works wonders. Blatantly calling him out on his shit works pretty great too.”

“Damn. It's a shame we're not married anymore, Dallon. This kid could've really helped me make your life a living hell.”

He groans.

\---

Another week after the funeral, you're laying in the back yard next to Dallon, sharing a joint, and having a deep discussion. You like having deep discussions. It's a bonding thing, and, man, you just fuckin' love the hell out of him. “You know what I haven't said to you in a while?”

You spare him a glance. “What?”

“I _really_ love you.”

Oh. Your face goes a little red as you look away from him. “Is 'ditto' too underwhelming?”

“Just a tad.”

“I love you too.”

\---

“I want to marry him.”

You look up at Tyler. “Josh?”

“No, I want to marry Pete. _Yes,_ I want to marry Josh. Who else would it be?”

You put your hands up in defense. “Alright, man. Why are you telling me this?”

“I dunno. You're my friend and I can't exactly talk to Josh about this.”

“True.”

“I mean, we've talked about getting married before, but there hasn't been a right time. It's just—lately—I don't—I just really want to marry him, alright? Like, I can definitely picture myself spending the rest of my life with him.” He has his chin in his palms, and he looks so happy. You kind of like it when he talks about Josh, to be honest. He always gets this soft, fond little look on his face, and it's one of the ones you don't rag on him for. Most of the time he just looks cold or vaguely pissed off, but it's endearing to see someone in love.

“Do you have any plans on how you're gonna ask?”

“Our anniversary is on my birthday, so, like, in a few months, and I was kind of thinking of popping the question then. I dunno, we usually go out for dinner on birthdays and holidays.”

You grin, and the two of you go back and forth about it for a while until he asks you if you're ever going to marry Dallon. You choke on your spit, as usual, before answering. “I don't know, man. I mean, I think that, eventually, yeah, I probably will, but we haven't talked about it before. I don't really want to marry him right now, because I'm too young and too busy.”

He raises his eyebrows. “Who do you think's going to pop the question?”

“He will. I mean, I like grand gestures, but that's the one I couldn't see myself pulling.”

\---

Later in the evening, after Dallon gets home, you burst into the 'office,' saying, “Dude, holy fuckin' shit. I have about five hundred stories to tell you.”

He turns his head to look at you. “Uh, _honey,” Oh god._ “I'm kind of in a business meeting right now. Can we hold off on the f-bombs and the swearing for at least another half an hour?”

“Oops. Um, yeah. I'll—I'll go.”

 

A few hours later, Dallon comes stumbling into the living room to curl up next to you on the couch with his head on your shoulder. You wrap an arm around him, and ask, “Are you alright…?”

He shakes his head. “Not really. I've had a really shitty day.”

“Wanna talk about it?”

“I had a meeting this morning, and everyone in the damn room was being flat out rude, and no one would take me seriously. Like, for one thing, I'm their fucking _boss,_ and I can make their lives a living hell, but that wasn't stopping anyone. It took everything in me not to rip into someone.

“Then, when I got home, before I could even shower, my lawyer calls me on Skype, because, apparently, the FBI is poking around the firm, because _someone_ in the damn company is doing some illegal bullshit, and since I'm CEO, I'm, of course, a fucking suspect or whatever.” His voice starts wavering and kind of breaking a little bit as he continues. “I could lose my fucking job, and I just—I bust my ass _every single day,_ then some asshole has to go and ruin it.”

“Hey, dude, you're innocent, right? If you're innocent, you don't know that you'll lose your job.”

“It's one of the guys that _I_ work for that's doing the illegal shit. He's the kind of guy who'd try pushing the blame onto me. Why do stockbrokers have to be so fucking shady?”

You squeeze him a bit. “What'd your lawyer say?”

“That I should be fine. Jesus—I should just start my own firm.”

“Do it if you want. You've got my vote of confidence and my support, dude.”

\---

One of the things you don't like about being a _model_ is that you have to maintain a certain body type, meaning you're wildly underweight. You vaguely remember kind of struggling with some form of an eating disorder when you were in high school, mostly due to an abusive relationship and having a flimsy sense of self, but you don't remember being _this_ bad.

Of course, you're good at hiding it. But just that. Just good. You're not _great_ at it, and you're not _perfect,_ but you're good. You're pretty sure Dallon knows about it, because, hey, you live with him, but he doesn't say anything.

You don't think any of your friends pick up on it until you're at a restaurant eating breakfast with _Patrick_ and Pete's kid. Pete's kid has headphones on, and he's watching something on your phone, so Patrick takes it as an opportunity to ride your ass. _Jesus. Since Pete had his kid, Patrick's been increasingly turning into a mother hen. It's… kind of funny, in a way._ “You need to eat more than a salad and some water.”

“I'm not hungry.” You actually aren't, honestly. Your appetite is low, but Patrick seems to think otherwise and, hell, he even tells you as much. “Man, look, I binged on booze and pizza this weekend. I don't need to gain any weight.”

“How tall are you?” He gives you a pointed look.

“I dunno, 5'7”? Give or take.”

“How much do you weigh?'

“Wh—what? Why are you asking?”

Cue another pointed look. “Answer me.”

“One-hundred, give or take.”

“Alright then. _Eat something._ I'll order you something myself if I have to.” For someone whose six inches shorter than you, and who looks fifteen at best, Patrick's pretty good at being intimidating and authoritative. “Anyways—are you sure you're up for Los Angeles?”

The reason you're even having breakfast with Patrick is to discuss something to do with his record label. You'd figure that they'd be the ones to _hook him up_ with a manager or whatever, but, nope, they weren't. He'd come to you because, hey, he still works at a Guitar Center, and he can't just afford to go to Los Angeles whenever he needs to. (He manages, but as far as you're aware, this wasn't the best time to _have_ to go. You're more than glad to help out, though.) “Yeah, dude. I've kind of been needing an excuse to leave the house other than for work. Or, well, my own work, at least.”

“Alright then. Y'know, speaking of—how's _your_ work anyways?”

“What do you mean?”

“Like, what do you do, how's it going, etcetera.”

“Oh. Uh. Mostly I've been doing photo-shoots lately, and I've been overseas a lot? It's going good, though. I have a pretty decent career, so I can't complain. Tyler's been kind of giving me more than I can handle, but I manage.”

Patrick speaks around a mouthful of pasta as he says, “You should ask him to lighten up then, dude. He'd probably do it. Oh, _dude,_ did you hear how the proposal went?”

“Oh my god. Yeah. I can't believe Josh turned him down. I mean, I can understand where he's coming from, but that must've been one helluva slap to the face. He showed up at my house crying at, like, two in the morning. He was also plastered, and I think he _might've_ been strung out on something.”

Patrick winces. “Sounds rough. Do you know if they've broken up or anything?”

“I don't think so. Tyler's just, like, pretty butthurt. What gets me is that Josh talked to him about marriage or whatever, but then he had the nerve to say he doesn't believe in it. Like, marriage isn't a fucking religion, dude. I'm not saying he should've said yes, but, he should've said yes.” You shake your head.

“How are things going with your boyfriend?”

You frown at him for a split second. “Why does everyone keep asking me that?”

He shrugs. “I'm just curious. We don't exactly talk all the time.”

“Things are alright, I guess. Kind of, like, strained, because I haven't really been home, and I haven't had the time to pay attention to him or anything. He's also stressed out of his damn mind. Did Pete tell you about him losing his job?”

“Yeah.”

“He managed to keep the job for almost exactly a year. I feel kind of bad, honestly. I mean, he still has more money than he'll know what to do with, but it's—it's a pretty devastating blow.”

“Does your income supplement it at all?”

“Fuck no. I make _maybe_ a thousandth of what he made this year. We might have to move, because the insurance he has for the house is kind of expensive.”

“Oh, no. That house is beautiful. Don't move.”

You roll your eyes. “It's just a house, dude. There's other houses. Also, like, the house is kind of unreasonable now that I think about it. Four bedrooms? And have you seen the kitchen? I wouldn't actually really be against downgrading. Oh, Jesus—have I told you how _insufferable_ he's been lately?”

“Nope. You should definitely elaborate though.”

“Alright, like, he's stressed, and when he's stressed, he turns into a bit of a dick. That, on top of not working, is the _worst._ He's a workaholic. He needs to start applying for different jobs. He's a spectacular stockbroker, and I honestly think he'd be more successful doing that rather than the CEO bullshit.”

“I agree. Also, uh, hate to cut this short, but _someone,”_ he nudges the kid, “needs to get back to school.”

He's met with a whine from the kid and a small little laugh from you.

\---

The two of you stop in Las Vegas for a few days on the way to Los Angeles so you can visit your parents. It's February at the moment, and you haven't gotten the chance to see them since, like, Christmas last year. The visit is going good up until you go to a Walmart in the middle of the night to get an energy drink for the morning.

You hear an excited, “Brendon, hey!” coming from a familiar voice, and you turn around with a wicked grin that drops immediately when you see who's tailing Spencer. (Who is coming at you with, presumably, intentions of a bro-hug. “The hell are you doing in Vegas?” He doesn't even acknowledge the fact that _Ryan fucking Ross_ is with him. _Does he not remember the beef I have with him? Ugh._ Sure, it's been almost six years since you last saw Ryan, but an elephant never forgets. Yes, you're an elephant. This whole story is about you being an elephant. A shock, isn't it?

“Uh. I'm kind of on my way to LA. One of my friends has a record deal or whatever, but we need to find him a manager, so you know.” You take a moment to make awkward eye contact with Ryan, and he takes it as a cue to give you an awkard 'I know you hate me, but let's pretend to get along for Spencer's sake' grin and a handshake.

You look at his hand, then back to his face with a slightly miffed expression. Of course, you shake his hand, and you all but yank it away when you're done. _God, this is so awkward. So, so awkward._ It's kind of weird, since you hadn't seen him in so long, and honestly, he'd quit being real to you at some point. He was more or less just a concept, for lack of a better word.

The hand you'd used to shake his feels weird. You want to rub it raw, maybe to get rid of the gross feeling you'd gotten from shaking it, or maybe to get away from the fucking _memories._ You shift awkwardly just a bit while you finish making small talk with Spencer before getting the fuck out of the store. (After paying for the energy drink, of course.)

 

You're shaking by the time you get to your parents' house. Yes, you're staying with your parents. They aren't being as insufferable as the last few times you've seen them, but you also kind of think it's because you don't have Dallon with you for once. They seem to like Patrick, though, so that's something. You guess.

You kick your shoes off at the door before walking into the kitchen to put your energy drink into the fridge. When you flick the light on, you see your mother standing there, in front of the sink, drinking water, and thoroughly scaring the fucking shit out of you. “Jesus fucking Mary and Joseph—Turn the light on, would ya?” You have a hand over your heart. You're still trying to regulate your breathing and not freak the hell out over seeing _Ryan,_ and she's not helping by scaring the shit out of you.

“Language.”

“I'm going to be twenty three in like four months.”

“You're still my _baby.”_ You make a face at her before sticking the energy drink into the fridge.

“Does dad still keep his liquor in the back of the pantry?”

You get a bored and slightly disappointed look out of her. “Aren't you leaving in the morning?”

“Yeah. We'll be in the hotel most of the day, though.”

She sighs and waves towards the pantry.

“I'll buy him liquor as, like, compensation.”

Your mother clicks her tongue. “That's just what every mother wants to hear.”

“Hopefully it's up there next to 'I'm in a relationship with a millionaire who's seven years older than me.'”

She straight up just _huffs_ at you. “So, tell me; how _are_ things with _him?”_

“You know his name. You should use it. And they're _fine.”_ You shrug as you look through the cabinets trying to find a shot glass.

\---

On the last day in Los Angeles, you walk into Patrick's room bright and early in the morning, only to find him in bed with another man. You quietly walk over to his side of the bed and nudge him awake. He looks up at you, and just says, “Fuck.”

“What the fuck, dude? You have a _kid.”_ You're whisper-yelling at him. You frown, and lean over Patrick to nudge the other guy awake. “Get the fuck out of here, dude.”

 _He_ grumbles, but grabs his clothes, slips them on, and gets out of the room pretty damn quickly. “I don't know what to tell you. Shit happens.”

“Shit happens? What? Did you trip and—oh no—his dick went up your ass?”

\---

Honestly, once you got back to New York, you knew you were going to have a _talk_ about the Patrick thing with Dallon, but you didn't think it was going to happen at two in the morning, while the two of you were getting it on for the first time in three weeks. (Three weeks felt like three years to you. Totally a long time.) (You're also a little peeved that Dallon has a tendency to start having discussions in the middle of sex. Like, who does that? Who _actually_ does that?)

“What's on your mind? You got that look on your face.”

You give him another look, and you take a minute to lean back and catch your breath. “Patrick cheated on Pete.”

 _Now_ he props himself up on his elbows, eyes wide. “No way.”

“Yeah, dude. I walked into his hotel room and found him in bed with another guy. I don't think they were cuddling or anything.”

“Shit. Does Pete know?”

“No, and I'm not telling him. They're raising a kid together. They don't need that shit tearing them apart or whatever. Also—can we, like, have this discussion when I _don't_ have my dick in your ass?”


	18. Chapter 18

What's essentially your second mental breakdown and your second major fight with Dallon happens in the middle of December, 2014. It shouldn't have been much of a shock, honestly. You'd just gotten back from your first trip overseas, _alone,_ you were up to your dick in paperwork (which wasn't new), and Dallon was in a pissy mood, meaning he was griping about every single little fucking thing. Given that you were stressed out of your fucking mind, well, it didn't help matters.

Stress and exhaustion, stacked on top of you not eating for the past, like, eight months, makes for a very, _very_ grumpy Brendon. A very testy and irritable Brendon. You'd been teetering on a fine line of not losing your fucking mind, and, well, losing your fucking mind.

 _Essentially,_ the two of you get into a shouting match, a few hurtful things are said, then something just snaps in you and you break down crying. It's all very Lifetime-esque. It's seriously the kind of thing you'd see in Days of our Lives, or some other shitty soap. You fall back onto the bed, because you kind of cant breathe. Your hands are shaking and your vision is blurred, and not because you're fucking blind, but because you have _tears_ clouding your vision. You're also just fuckin' _sobbing._

You're not some beautiful, hot little mess when you're crying. You really aren't. You aren't some soft, quiet, peaceful mess either. You're just a clumsy, not graceful mess, and you prove this point then when you end up choking on your spit during your little meltdown, meaning you end up having to haul ass to the bathroom to empty your guts.

That definitely isn't a pretty experience. You throw up whatever had been in your stomach, which wasn't much, then after your stomach acid is gone as well, you're dry heaving. You don't hear Dallon come into the bathroom, but you feel his hand on your back at some point. You feel guilty as fuck, for whatever reason, so you say, “This—this—it's kind of my fault. I'm—you can go, if you want.”

You hear him sigh. “It's not your fault. I was being an asshole, and taking it out on you. It was super shitty of my. If anything, it's _my_ fault, and I'm sorry.”

You're done trying to wipe your eyes, honestly. You're also kind of surprised you haven't ran out of tears yet. “It is, though. I've been an asshole lately, and I could've done better rather than egging you on. God—I've been so _useless_ lately.” You scrub your hands down your face. “Every single fucking thing that mildly upsets me makes me cry and—Jesus—it's fucking pathetic.

“You're not useless, and for Christ's sake, you're not pathetic.”

You grumble. “I'm never even home, and I don't even pay attention to you. I'm all over the fucking world, putting myself through hell for some career that could blow up in my face at any second. I've also been treating you like shit lately, and I keep taking you for granted, and I'm _sorry.”_ Aaand now you're crying worse than you were before. Anything's possible, you guess.

“Hey—hey—look. If I felt like you were neglecting me or whatever the hell you think, then I'd say something. I can take care of myself.” He grunts a little bit as he stands up. “I'm getting old. Christ. Brush your teeth, and let's just—let's go to bed or something, alright?”

\---

Someone on Twitter starts a shit storm involving you. You're not really in the mood for it. It's over your sexuality, of course. Everyone pesters you—are you gay? Bi? Pan? You end up having to just post, “I'm not gay, nor am I bi, but I'm not straight either. My sexuality isn't up for any of you to decide.”

And then you get a slew of people coming after you, saying that since you're in a relationship with a _man,_ then you can't be not gay. Which you think is just absolutely ridiculous. You also see a bunch of comments about people thinking you're a slut, and although they're not wrong, there's a few jokes about you fucking around on Dallon, which you _do not_ appreciate. You'd never do that to him.

 

_**brendon urie:** _ _sorry; this sounds shitty but I really wish I could be JUST gay or JUST straight, but im not, so hop off my dick._

_\---_

Considering you've been away from home for the better part of the year, you'd hoped that you'd at _least_ be able to spend Christmas at home, but apparently Brendon can't have nice tings. Whatever higher power that might or might not exist just wasn't having it.

You have to leave on the fifteenth of December for a job in Los Angeles, and Dallon ends up having to go to Toronto for a business thing, meaning you end up just going to your parents' house for Christmas. They seem thrilled to have you home, honestly. It's been about six years since you've spent Christmas at home, you think, so you can see why they're excited.

 

On the twentieth, your mother takes you to breakfast. (And she refuses to let you pay for it.)

It's a nice breakfast, up until you snort your drink through your nose. You tend to do that when people shock you, for whatever reason. You're definitely not a smooth guy. “When do you think you're going to marry him?”

“Jesus— _Mom._ I don't know. We haven't actually been together _that_ long, and I—I uh—I still think I'm just a bit too young for that.” You're about the shade of a fire hydrant. Like, the red ones. Not the ugly yellow ones. _Why is everyone up my ass about marrying him? Okay, not everyone, but Tyler is, and now my mom is too apparently. Good fucking god._

A while later, she asks, “Are you alright?'

“What do you mean?'

“It's just—you're awfully skinny, honey.”

_And now she's up my ass about my weight._

“I know. Kind of have to maintain a certain body type for my career. I'm fine.”

She shrugs a bit, and you're pretty sure she's _pretty_ worried about you. _Oh well._

 

On the twenty second, you get the shit scared out of you. Well, not scared, but you're a bit shocked. The door bell rings around nine, and considering you were on the couch in your underwear, and considering you hadn't showered in about three days, you weren't too keen on answering it. Of course, your mother has different ideas. “Brendon, could you get the door?” She's suspiciously cheerful and chipper, and you don't trust her.

“I'm in my underwear and I smell like armpit.”

_“Brendon.”_

You groan obnoxiously. You hate the mom tone. You haul yourself to the front door, and when you open it, prepared to tell a Jehova's witness to fuck off, you're greeted with a face full of Dallon, Tyler, Pete, and Pete's kid.

Everyone piles onto you in a group hug, and you hear your mother snap a picture from behind you. “What the hell are you guys doing here?” You ask after everyone's in the house and sitting in the living room.

“I've got work for you, basically. Also kind of don't want to spend Christmas alone or with my family _or_ Josh's family,” Tyler's quick to respond as he kicks his shoes off.

Pete shrugs as he says, “I kicked Patrick out, and staying home was just a bit too depressing.” Aw, shit. That sucks. You try to cling to a bit of hope that they can work it out.

“And I managed to finish what I had to do in Toronto a few days early, so, uh, here I am.” You almost bash your face against the wall at the adorably awkward little grin you get out of him.

 

You end up at a shopping mall on the twenty third, mostly since you weren't expecting the four extra people. You pick out a few nice presents for everyone, and you almost get out of the mall relatively unscathed, until a group of girls stop you, wanting to chat and to get a picture. You've been stopped a few times before, but it still always catches you off guard. Today wasn't really a great day for it either.

You look terrible in the photo, and it bugs you. Everyone is going to get to see how _gross_ you look, and it stresses you out. You also shouldn't be getting worked up over it, because, hey, you're your biggest critic, right? Maybe people won't notice. Some people haven't even seen your face before, so maybe at first glance they'll think you look good. You go through a few variations of that string of thoughts before you call yourself out on your shit.

The trip to the mall helps you come to the conclusion that you're tired of being stressed out all of the damn time. (Of course, you're incredibly lucky to have been blessed with fame and some vague sense of fortune, excluding Dallon, especially given your age, but that doesn't mean your issues are suddenly invalid. Though, you apparently like to think that it _does_ make your issues invalid.)

 

You manage to get up to your (old) bedroom without anyone seeing you. (Besides Dallon, considering he was napping in your bed.) It's a little creepy, but his eyes blink open the second you open the door. He asks if you're alright, and you vaguely describe what happened. “Ah.” You get a sympathetic grin out of him, which causes you to let out a slightly bitter laugh. He adjusts his position on the bed until he's on his stomach, with his head propped up, so he can look up at you from the foot of it. “What'd you get me?”

“You'll find out in a few days. I don't suppose you'll tell me what you got me?”

“Nope.”

“You should go back to sleep.”

He groans. “I want to, but I also want to spend time with you, and I can't do that if I'm sleeping all day.” He rolls onto his back now, and motions for you to lean down and kiss him. Which you do, of course. It's kind of awkward given the position.

“You're such a sap. I'd seriously throw up if I didn't love it.”

He grins almost wickedly before kissing you again, and telling you that he loves you. A lot. You grin uncontrollably for at least twenty minutes if you're honest. It's been a few months since you've had a _moment_ with him. Like, a Hallmark moment.

A little later, when you're kind of just hanging out with him and talking about trivial little things, you have another moment where you realize you need to put on weight. It's not really a major moment, and it doesn't distract you too much. You just notice that you're way smaller than he is. Of course, he's nine inches taller than you, but you're literally able to see your damn ribs and your hip bones.

He's lucky, kind of. He hasn't changed a whole lot since you met him. Weight wise. He's gained, like, maybe twenty pounds, but given that he's basically a tree, it's really not that much. The only downside of _him_ gaining weight is that he way more self conscious about not having a shirt on, or only wearing underwear around you. He doesn't show it very much, but considering you're one of the most self conscious people alive, it's not hard for you to pick up on it.

You seriously don't give a shit though. Like, he's getting older, and you really don't expect him to keep on top of how his body looks, especially since he's pretty busy, what with starting a new job and all. (He's been pretty successful with this new job.) Point is, though, you still think he's absolutely gorgeous, and you're probably more in love with him now than you were before. (You also still find the pudge on his stomach totally adorable.)

 

“So. I don't know if I told you, but do you, uh—do you want to know how much money I've made since starting the new job?”

“Hit me, dude.”

“Eight.”

_“Million?”_

He nods. “Yeah. I'm a pretty lucky guy, I think. Or at least lucky enough that _this_ job hasn't blown up in my face yet.”

“Shit, man. Congrats. What are you even going to _do_ with the money?”

“I dunno. Buy a new house. Maybe a car.”

“Your car is perfectly fine.” You roll your eyes at him. “If you buy a house, though, don't get one in New York.”

“If I buy a house, I'm buying an even bigger one than the one we have right now.”

“We?”

You get squinted at. “Look, man, you've lived there for, like, two years. It's as much as your house as it is mine. Even though your name isn't on the deed. Anyways—did you get anyone anything interesting for Christmas?”

“Uh. I kind of spent a hundred and fifty grand on presents. Like, a hundred and fifty grand of _my_ money.”

You get a bored look. “That's barely even a tenth of a percent of what's in my bank account. I literally wouldn't give a shit.”

“Yeah, well, it's more personal if it's _my_ money. I paid off the mortgage on my parents' house, I splurged a little bit on a necklace for my mother and a watch for my dad. I hope they appreciate it.”

“They better. Shit. How much was their mortgage?”

“Sixty grand? Give or take. My mom asked if I could help out on a payment, so I decided to just, like, pay it all off. She doesn't know yet, I don't think. I also have a check written out for thirty grand for Pete. Like, to pay his rent for the next year. I was kind of debating on whether or not to actually give it to him, but what with the recent news of Patrick getting kicked out, I figured it'd be a pretty good present. So, that there is about a hundred.”

“Shit, dude. You're a pretty nice guy.”

You shrug. “I try my best. Uh, then I bought a few things for _you._ I'm not telling you what, though. I bought, like, a coupon for Armani's spring collection for Tyler, since he's been griping about his suits lately, then I spent a fucking mint on a few presents for Pete's kid. That about sums up what I bought. How about you?”

“Aside from your present, I got a few things for your parents, hopefully to, like, win their approval. Oh, dude, I decided to buy a coat for Tyler, because the one he has is god-awful. I couldn't stand to look at it for one more second.”

You snort. “It is pretty ugly, if I'm honest.”

“You were with me for this one, but there's the video games or whatever for Pete's kid. Kids like video games, right?”

You nod. “Oh hell yeah. The little dude totally loves Mario. You made a wise choice with that gift.”

 

The next day, you get your monthly dose of homophobia from some snot nosed fifteen year old at a supermarket. You aren't really phased by it, honestly. All you'd been doing was having another Hallmark moment with Dallon, and the second he'd bent down to kiss you, you'd heard a quick shout of, “Faggot!”

 _Huh. Haven't heard that one in a while._ You have to try not to laugh as Dallon whips around, slipping into his stony business demeanor to say, “Watch your fucking tongue, kid.”

 

On Christmas, your mother cries, and _Pete_ cries from your presents. You give them a few awkward and sympathetic pats on the back. Tyler lovingly socks you in the shoulder for his present, and Pete's kid hugs your legs as tight as he can.

You get a few t-shirts from Pete, a hand drawn card from his kid that you're definitely keeping forever, Tyler tells you that you're booked for a few very high paying jobs, and that he almost had to suck a dick to pull it off, your parents opt for a few sentimental gifts (and your mother gives you a few casseroles to take home with you), then _Dallon_ pulls a grand gesture out of his ass. He doesn't pull the grand gesture in front of your parents, or your friends, but he does pull it.

 

You're laying on your old bed when he hands you an envelope. You pretty much _faint_ when you open it. You're not even kidding or exaggerating when you say there was a check for a million fucking dollars in the envelope. “I love you, but I can't accept this.” You hand him the envelope.

“Oh, Brendon, for Christ's sake—I make that much money in a week. I'll show you my pay stubs if I have to. Just take it.” Jesus Christ. You've never asked him for so much as a cent, yet he goes and pulls this shit. Who the fuck does he think he is? God? He probably is god. He's pretty enough.

 


	19. Chapter 19

Paris. You really like Paris. You've been there quite a fuckin' bit over the past three years, and you've grown to like it a lot. This trip is a little different, though. It's more… Stressful. Okay, okay, you find everything stressful, but this time it actually _is_ stressful. You're set to walk in the biggest fashion show of your career so far, and you are really fucking nervous.

For once, Tyler is actually trying to be somewhat supportive, and he tries to give you his vote of confidence. Well, as best as he can, anyways. He means well, and you know he does, but he's awkward in his execution when it comes to emotional stuff. “You just have to get through this, dude. Tough it out if you can, because this show is going to be life changing. If you thought you had things going for you before now, then you were wrong, because this will literally open up a world of opportunities for you.”

\---

March, 2015, is a fucking _fabulous_ month.

In hindsight, you probably shouldn't have done what you did, but you're entitled to a sex life. It's not illegal for you to take _risque_ photos (by risque, you mean pretty graphic) for your boyfriend, especially given with how much you travel. It's not a crime, and you really, really shouldn't be getting shit for it.

Let's backtrack, though. Someone, you don't know _who,_ or _how,_ but someone managed to get into your fucking iCloud account, and posted every single fucking picture you've ever taken of yourself that's even _mildly_ pornographic. Why? Who knows. You're placing your bets on it being some homophobe, though.

Of course, though, things are made worse since you're not the only one affected by it. Dallon wasn't completely innocent in the whole situation either. You're a bad influence, you guess. You had a few pictures of _him_ on your phone, and of course those got posted and—alright—you're getting a fucking Android. That's it. Fuck Apple.

You'd gotten a call at, like, four in the morning from Tyler, and as soon as you picked up, he said, _“Uh, hey, promise me you won't freak out too badly.”_

“What's going on?” You ask quietly as you sit up. You shush Dallon and tell him to go back to sleep when he asks what's happening. Tyler explains the situation, and you can only ask, “Pardon? You—you're not kidding, right?”

_“Yes, Brendon, I woke myself and Josh, by association, up at four in the morning just to joke around about pictures of you diddling yourself getting posted on the internet. That's exactly what I'm doing.”_

You swear under your breath. “Fuck off. You're not helping matters.”

 _“Yeah, I know. Anyways—just—I'll be at your house in a few hours with, uh, a_ friend, _to try and sort this shit out, and you should have a chat with your boyfriend about this, and possibly your lawyer, if you have one, or his.”_

The two of you cut the call off after that, and you're too shocked to really do anything other than lay on your back, staring at the ceiling. You nudge Dallon awake, and explain the situation. Your voice raises a few octaves as you go on with your explanation, and you start feeling the same way you did when your parents found out you weren't straight. You kind of feel like someone kneed you in the gut, knocking the wind out of you.

He scoots over to you, and throws an arm over your chest. “This isn't a favorable situation, but, uh, I think we should try getting at least a few more hours of sleep, alright?”

“You have to get up in an hour, dude.”

“I'll take a personal day.”

You make a noise of acknowledgment.

 

Your mentions on Twitter are fucking atrocious. There's far too many people dropping lewd and derogatory, not to mention vulgar comments towards you, or it's someone making a snide, homophobic remark. Pete ends up tagging along with Tyler (after dropping his kid off with Patrick, since they're apparently on speaking terms again) since he'd caught wind of the shit storm almost as soon as it happened. He made a comment about Kim Kardashian and Paris Hilton, which caused you to laugh. It didn't help too much, but you appreciate his demented sense of comfort.

Tyler spends most of the day on the phone, since the person he wanted to have tag along with him couldn't come. He tries his best to get shit done, and he's trying to get everything straightened out. You appreciate that Tyler goes out of his way for you. It means a lot.

Dallon's fucking lawyer ends up coming over at some point, and they spend a few hours talking and getting some sort of plan hashed out. You figure he's going to file a lawsuit whenever the police figure out who the hell got into your iCloud account. You're not interested in a lawsuit, honestly. You just want to let this shit blow over, then go on about your life.

You end up just sitting on the couch with Pete, totally not smoking weed, and totally not denying it when Tyler gives you a bored look.

Dallon manages to draw an even more bored look out of Tyler when he walks into the living room and motions for you to pass the joint. Pete tries his best not to laugh, and you just say, “Couples who smoke together stay together,” which earns you a foot in the shin from your loving boyfriend.

You also totally don't give Tyler a never ending stream of shit when he joins in on the pot smoking.

 

The fucking scandal or whatever the hell you want to call it makes national news. At first, you panic. Like, really fucking bad. Your parents see the whole shit storm, which makes it so much worse. You can't even bring yourself to show your damn face in public. Dallon, some fucking how, manages, as he usually does. You envy his aloofness, and the way he somehow seems to not give a shit.

You end up calling Tyler, crying, panicking, and trying to explain how the 'scandal' made national news, and how _upset_ you are. This whole ordeal was a shock to the system, and you're not sure how to deal with it. Tyler, thankfully, ends up dropping everything to come over and do his thing.

 

The conversation about what to do happens with him sitting on the floor in front of the coffee table, and with you tucked in on yourself, on the end of the sofa, nibbling on a small bag of potato chips. You figure the situation calls for a bit of stress eating. “Give a statement. Post about it and acknowledge it. Just—try not to give a shit, alright?”

“I'm not like _you._ I give a shit about _everything_.”

He just laughs at that. “Jesus, dude, I give a shit about everything too. I'm an emotional dude, believe it or not. Have I ever showed you—oh god—promise me you won't breathe a word about this to anyone else.”

“My lips are sealed.”

He cringes. “Okay, when I was seventeen, I tried getting into music, right? Obviously nothing took off, and the band I started crashed and burned, but like—I had an EP that I did on my own, then an album with the band I mentioned. Here,” he grabs his phone and hands it to you, with what you assume is the album his old band made pulled up.

You totally don't laugh, because; “Dude. I kind of already have this on my own phone. I listen to it religiously.”

“Seriously? What the fuck?”

“Oh, god, that's why it sounds familiar. You're singing, on it, right?”

He groans but nods anyways. “Anyways, look, the point is that I'm not actually an emotionless prick. You shouldn't let this shit get to you, though. Shit happens.”

You grumble.

“Have you been on twitter lately?”

“Not really. I've kind of been avoiding social media altogether.”

“Do you remember how many followers you had before all of this?”

“Two hundred and fifty thousand? Maybe?”

He bites his cheek as he hands you his phone again, with your profile pulled up. “Look, dude; it's more than tripled since all of this. Try to think of it as publicity. Like, really good publicity.”

 

Your statement seems a little too formal and official, given how you usually talk when it comes to Twitter, but, in your opinion, it's a good one. You point out that queer people are entitled to sex lives, and that includes you. You also point out that the photos weren't meant to be shared online, and that they were solely meant for Dallon's (you call him your boyfriend, though) (you don't like mentioning him by name, mostly out of respect for his privacy) eyes only.

Someone asks why you didn't just say gay people, and you respond with:

 

 _ **bread @brendonurie:**_ @janedoe i'm not gay?? surprisingly bi/pansexuality exists

 

Similar to all the other times you drop comments about not being specifically gay or straight, you get a slew of shit. You go off on a few people, and call a bunch of others out on their shit, and for whatever fucking reason, Tumblr just absolutely _loves_ it. You don't though. You don't like the idolization, or the praise getting thrown your way. You're just a normal person, honestly.

\---

You get featured in the one shitty rag that'd basically harassed Dallon a few years ago again. This time, the article is centered on _you_ and not Dallon. You get interviewed briefly by someone, then a month later, Tyler's barging into the house, magazine in hand, and looking fucking _manic._ You have never seen him this excited.

“According to the magazine,” he starts as he plops down on the couch, “You're an _inspiration,_ and a _sensation.”_ He recites the article to you, and by the time he's finished, you're mirroring the grin, because it's a fucking _awesome_ article.

You snatch the magazine from him to read it yourself, and, yep, it's real. It's definitely _real._ “This is so fucking awesome. This is like—this is the kind of shit I dreamed about doing when I was a kid. Or, well, the shit I dreamed about _happening._ This is kind of surreal.”

Tyler starts going on some rant about your career, and you're listening pretty intently, but, apparently, he gets a _little_ too excited, or, you assume so, since he starts ranting in Arabic.

\---

 _More_ shit goes down in the beginning of June. Why is it that every single person in your life likes to call you between four to eight in the morning, crying a bout whatever the hell is going on in their life? This time, it's your mother, and you curse, because either someone died, or she's, like, super drunk. “Whoa, whoa, slow down, Mom. What's wrong?” You pull your usual routing of shushing Dallon and telling him to go back to sleep as you get up and head to the kitchen to get yourself a glass of water.

 _“Your father left me.”_ She sounds devastated.

You were about half way through the living room when she'd said that. “What a fucking lame ass shit. Why?”

She explain that, basically, he's just a lame ass shit, and that after the photo incident happened, the two of them got into it, and considering he hadn't really been the most accepting of you and Dallon in the first place, it was kind of the last straw for him. He was, apparently, pissed off at your mother for defending you.

“I hate to pull this card, but I'm his fucking child,” you mutter as you finish making your way to the kitchen.

You manage to pour yourself a glass of water before you mother responds. _“I'm sorry about this. I just—I need someone to talk to. I know you don't like me.”_

“Whoa, alright, you're a little presumptuous. I don't hate you. You're my _mother._ We're family, and, like, we're supposed to be there for each other or whatever.” You talk to her for another ten minutes or so, before telling her to go to bed, and so that you can start getting dressed and ready for your day. Which is supposed to be busy, might you add.

You hear footsteps as you put the phone back on the receiver, prompting you to say, “Dude, go back to bed. You still have half an hour until you have to be up.”

He grunts at you and walks past to get a pot of coffee started. “Is everything alright?”

“I guess. My dad left my mom.”

He nods a bit, and says, “Sorry, I guess.” He's tired as hell, and you feel bad for waking him up in the first place.

You chat with him a little bit while he works on waking himself up, before _you_ end up back against the counter, with one of his legs slotted between yours and one of your hands down the back of his pants to grab his ass.

Between kisses, he asks, “Why don't you come to work with me so we can act out some kinky office fantasies?”

You scoff. “I would, but I've been to your new office, and it's not exactly the kind of office I'd like to get fucked in. Also, I have shit to do today.”

He groans a bit. “You're no fun.”

“You're right. I'm practical.”


	20. Chapter 20

It's nice not traveling. You work through July and through August, then you get permission from Tyler to take a six month break. You need it. You kind of need to focus on your mental health and your physical health. You also don't mind getting to spend more time with your friends or your boyfriend either.

You go to Pete's apartment early in October, and he tells you about a few of the girlfriends and boyfriends he'd gone through. “Why can't you just, like, try working it out with Patrick?”

“I'm still pissed off.”

“Makes sense. Wouldn't it be easier, like, for your kid…?” You gesture towards his kid who's playing silently with a Game Boy Color. _It's, like, 201_ _5_ _. Why is he playing with a Game Boy Color?_

“I don't want to stay with him or whatever because of a kid. That's part of why my parents stayed together, because of me and my sister, and they were miserable.”

You nod. “Yeah. Oh, dude, did I tell you my dad left my mom?”

His eyes go a little wide. “No, you didn't. What an asshole. I already didn't like the dude, but now he leaves your mom.”

“He left her because he got pissed off about her defending me after the photo thing? Like, fuck you, dude. I mean, I think they had other issues besides that… disagreement, but still. It was fucking shitty of him.”

“That's dumb. Man, I'm like, your personal defense squad, so I don't get him. Are you holding up alright, or whatever?”

“I'm fine.”

\---

 _Knock knock knock._ Your eyes blink open. You know Dallon's awake due to the way he's breathing, but you know it's useless to tell him to go get the door. You quietly call him an asshole as you get up to answer it. You grab a robe on your way out, and you're pretty sure it isn't even yours, but you're tired as hell, so who gives a shit, right?

You open the door, and you have about a second to wonder how the hell a solicitor got past the gates before being met with some spiel about homosexuality tainting the sanctity of marriage. It's been legal for _months._ Why is it that now is the time someone knocks on the door, asking for signatures on a petition? It's _New York._ There's queers around every fucking corner.

Dryly, but subtly, you say, “Isn't that the god's honest truth?” The lady asks if you're married next, so, in an even dryer tone, you say, “Not yet. We're just together.” _If only she knew._

“Well isn't that _wonderful._ I would just love to speak with both you and your girlfriend. Is she home?”

You're a little shit by nature, so you respond with, “Uh, yeah. Give me a moment.”

Honsetly, you've never been up the stairs that fast while living there. “Dude, get up. There's some lady trying to get a signature on some petition to outlaw gay marriage or what the fuck ever.”

Dallon groans, and rolls over, effectively shoving you off of him. “Tell her to fuck off, then.” You also get a groggy little glare out of him.

“Dude, no, listen. She wanted to speak with both of us. This is a perfect chance for us to be assholes.”

As he gets up, he informs you that you're a bad influence.

It takes everything in you to keep a straight face, no pun intended, at the look of mortification that comes across her face the second she sees Dallon. “Well, this is my _boyfriend._ This issue is obviously _very_ important to us.”

She grumbles out something before stomping off of the property, and, oh man, do you have quite a fuckin' laugh once the door is closed.

\---

The first day of December, you're on a plane to Tokyo, and instead of being accompanied by Tyler, you're accompanied by _Josh._ (You're not supposed to be working, but Tyler kind of begged you to take the job, even though he wouldn't be able to accompany you. You're pretty sure you're getting paid decently, so you guess you'll let it slide.) On the plane ride, you take advantage of the privacy of first class to ask, “I sense turbulence in your relationship.”

“It's been a year since I turned down his marriage proposal and that's part of why he made me go with you to Japan. Also, you need someone to translate anyways.” Josh shrugs, and adjusts his position, presumably to get more comfortable. Although better than coach, first class isn't _that_ comfortable.

You wince. “Are you guys doing alright, though?”

“I guess. I mean, we aren't going to break up, if that's what you're asking. _I_ was going to propose on Christmas, and that's why I said 'no,' but then he copped an attitude with me for, like, four months.”

“Oh, for fuck's sake—do you know how much of his bullshit I put up with? Why didn't you just _tell_ him?”

“I can't just _tell_ him that, dude.”

“Josh, the two of you could've had a wedding by now.”

“Eat my ass.”

“Don't tempt me.”

\---

Japan isn't actually that interesting, and you're a bit mad at Tyler for making you go. (You could've said no, but you don't really like arguing with him.) You have a 'press' thing to do, or however you want to phrase it, then the usual routine photo-shoot for some shitty Japanese rag.

\---

Tyler pretty much scares you to the point of a massive coronary in February. He barges into the house, and yells for you at eight in the fucking morning. You thank God that Dallon had went to work already, because you're pretty sure he would've kicked Tyler out if he'd been there. “Tyler, for _fuck's_ sake, can you _knock?”_

“You said I was welcome any time,” he says as he follows you from the stairs to the kitchen. “Also, you take too long whenever I knock.”

“I'm so sorry that I have to wake myself up, your majesty.”

“Piss off.”

 

Literally a second or two after you finish your breakfast, you're forced to sit back down at the table, being handed a stack of papers. “What are these?”

“Three of them I need you to sign so I can actually get paid, since you've apparently forgotten I'm not working for you for free.” He flips through his own stack of papers, not looking at you, before continuing, “Two of them are legal documents that you need to sign so that I can also continue to work for you in the first place, then the rest is your contract with the agency, which you need to renew. They wanted to do a meeting, but I'm not going to fucking Los Angeles right now, so, you know. They faxed the papers.”

You yawn. “Alright then.” You motion for him to hand you one of his pens, and you get threatened with castration if you don't return this one. “You, uh—you don't happen to know how much I made last year, do you?”

“Roughly three mil, give or take. Ten percent is my commission, so three hundred thousand.”

You cough a bit. “Three mil? Are you for real?”

“I'm good at my job; what can I say?”

You just let out a low whistle before scribbling your signature onto the three papers. Tyler is expensive. Actually, he's not really that expensive, and you thank the lord he's not like Dallon, who gets fifty fucking percent commission for selling stocks. It's a good rate when he's the one getting paid, but it's not a good one when you're the one doing the paying. Tyler still costs you a pretty penny, though. He's your friend and all, you think, but you're still basically his employer. You look over the next two papers, skimming them, before asking, “Did you change anything from last year on these two?”

“Nope. All I changed was the date. I still get ten percent, and I'm still basically responsible for what you do.” Your contract with the fucking modeling agency changed from them getting a five percent cut of your pay to ten percent, which still isn't really bad, but it peeves you a bit.

Once you're done signing things, Tyler starts talking again. “That's about all you need to sign for now. Uh, in a bout two weeks, we are going to...” He frowns, and pulls out another paper from his briefcase. “Portland. Right. You got the photo-shoot for IVO, which is that new clothing line or whatever the fuck.”

“What's after that?”

“You have three weeks off before we're due in Paris for the fifteenth fucking time probably. I think Josh might come with us, but I'm not sure. Anyways, you have shit to do with Yves Saint Laurent, then I managed to pull a few cards out of my ass for Dior. And—actually, I lied on accident; Paris is only for three weeks, then we're going to Milan for three more for a few other high profile shows. I don't have anything for you after that, though. At least not yet.”

“Why's Josh possibly tagging along?”

“He's clingy. Also, I was home for maybe a collective month last year, so it's understandable I guess. Also, uh, you can handle the month and a half, right?”

“Yes, Tyler, I can handle it. My mental health is flimsy and all, but I'm not going to have a nervous breakdown from being in Europe.”

“Alright, man. Just making sure. I've seen some shit.”

You roll your eyes.

 

You leave Tyler alone in the house for a few hours while you go run a few errands ,and when you get back, he is _still_ hunched over a bunch of paperwork in the kitchen. You set a few bags down on the counter next to the fridge before walking over to Tyler to nudge him in the leg with your foot. “Why aren't you at your own house?”

“Yours is quieter, your heater works, and your fridge isn't filled to the brim with Red Bull and leftover fast food.”

“Fair enough.”

“Though, you do have a few questionable things in your fridge.”

You blink for a second, trying to remember whether or not someone had let something go bad, but then you realize that he's talking about _the cake._ There's not too much of a story to it, other than _someone_ (Dallon) shooting his load a second or two too soon, and getting semen in your eye, like, two days previous.

He felt bad, and also apparently felt too awkward to verbally apologize with actual words, so he literally went and bought a fucking cake with, “Sorry about getting semen in your eye,” written across the top of it in frosting. You've eaten around the writing for the post part, and you didn't realize Tyler was going to be going through the fridge. “I'm… aware.” You vaguely explain what'd happened. (“I was giving head and his aim sucks. No remarks.”)

\---

Two days after you get home from Milan, you find an invitation to a wedding in the mail. Apparently _Spencer_ is getting married, and given that you're one of his best friends, you were invited. You're also allowed to bring a plus one, so _obviously_ you're bringing Pete. Okay, you kid. You figure _you-know-who_ is going to be there, and you don't particularly trust Pete not to start something. Also, it would kind of be a slap in the face if you didn't take Dallon with you in the first place. He's totally on board with going to the wedding, and you're kind of excited. Weddings are always fun, even if you have to sit through a boring sermon.

The ceremony itself is very lovely. You try not to shift back and forth the whole time, and you try not to fidget, given you're standing within a foot of Ryan the whole time. He doesn't really even pay any attention to you, and you appreciate it. Thankfully, you're allowed to make eye contact with Dallon once in a while, and he responds to you with subtle nods here and there. You don't think he knows exactly who Ryan is, and you're pretty sure he thinks that you're just insanely anxious. Which you are. But not for the reasons he thinks.

The reception starts off on a bad note, mostly due to you over thinking it. (Mostly.) As the seating arrangement goes, you're sat on the end of a table, with Dallon to your right, and Ryan sitting across from you. There's five other people at the table you don't know, and although they help, your nerves definitely aren't very… appeased.

Dallon asks if you're alright in French at some point. You think. You've been learning the language over the past three or four years, but you still don't understand a lot of it. You nod shrug in response, though, before making a subtle gesture towards Ryan and making an 'x' with your fingers. Dallon makes an 'o' shape with his mouth. Then he asks if you want to leave, so you shake your head again.

Ryan waits to say something to you until Dallon gets up to go to the bathroom and to grab a few more drinks for you and himself, plus a small slice of cake for you. For some reason, you expected Ryan to say something _rude,_ but he doesn't. He just asks, “Is he your boyfriend?”

You nod awkwardly. “Yeah.”

“He seems nice.”

You nod again. “He is. He's a really good guy.”

He makes a noise of acknowledgment before saying, “Sorry. I figured making small talk would make this less awkward for either of us.”

“Yeah, man, it's—it's fine. The less awkward the better. Don't really know why it _has_ to be awkward.” You adjust your position a little bit. “How've you been doing lately?”

He shrugs. “I've been alright.” He talks for a little bit, and you nod along. You don't really want to be talking to him, but like you said, the less awkward the better. He's really not being rude or mean like you'd expected, and it's weird. You're glad, though.

When he asks if you still live in New York, you answer with, “Yeah. Uh, I live, like, on the outskirts of the city. It's kind of a pain in the ass when I need to be downtown, but we have a _really_ nice house, so I figure it's a fair trade, you know?”

He raises his eyebrows. “How nice, though?”

“Six thousand square feet nice.”

“Shit, seriously? And _just_ the two of you live there?”

You nod. Again. You nod a lot. Nodding is a safe response to most things, though. “Honestly, I think it'd be more practical just to live in a condo or something, but he kind of takes 'go big or go home' a little too seriously. It's more like… Go big _and_ go home.”

He snorts.

“You still live in Vegas?”

“Nah. I moved to Malibu a few years ago. I'm renting an apartment. Vegas was getting a little boring for me. Also, I can smoke, like, _hella_ weed in California.”

You start coughing from laughing. “Shit, true. Yeah, uh, it's still illegal in New York. There's a petition to legalize it, though, so I'm praying it actually does something. Weed is way too fucking expensive there.”

“Okay, I have to ask, but what the fuck do you even do for work? You're in almost every single magazine I pick up.”

“I am a model surrounded by a metric shit ton of scandals and drama who's in a long term relationship with a millionaire.”

“Oh, shit, right, right. The uh—the photo thing. I remember seeing that on ET. As far as I'm concerned, at least you have a sex life. More power to ya.”

You crack a little bit of a grin. “Thanks, Ryan.”

 

Dallon returns shortly after that, so the conversation gets cut off. You get a kiss on the cheek, before he explains himself. “Sorry for taking so long. Your friend—Spencer—he stopped me and talked to me for a little bit.”

“You're fine, dude.”

“Okay, Brendon, look,” Dallon throws and arm over your shoulder, and points to someone standing near the cake. “That guy pisses me off. He's wearing brown shoes with black slacks. Straight people are a disgrace.”

You cant help but to giggle. “Straight people are a little tacky, I'll admit, but do you remember the time you tried wearing an argyle patterned tie with a striped short? _That_ was a disgrace.”

“Shut up. I was hungover, and you made me change anyways.”

“It's okay to admit you're tacky, Dallon. I still support you.” He makes a face and sticks his tongue out at you. _I hate this guy. He's way too cute._

 

Back at the hotel room, as Dallon's unbuttoning your shirt for you, he states, “I hate going to weddings.”

You raise your eyebrows at him. “Really? Why?”

“They take too long and I have to kiss too much ass. Your ass is the only ass I like kissing. Literally and figuratively.”

“Your lips have not once, in the past three years, touched my ass.”

He rolls his eyes. “You know what I mean.”

“Anyways, dude, you weren't even the one getting married. It's probably different when it's your own wedding.”

“Not really. Though, I wasn't exactly the happiest dude alive when _I_ got married. Anyways, I had to kiss a lot of ass that day, even more than usual. It was a nightmare.”

“You're doing a great job at convincing me to maybe someday marry you.”

“Shut up. How do you even know we'll get married?”

You shrug. “I _don't_ know, but it's like—when I picture the rest of my life or whatever, you're there, and it doesn't feel weird or wrong, so that has to mean something.”

You get a dumb little grin out of him. “I'm really glad I spilled my coffee all over my car seat that one time and had to go get Starbucks.”

“Seriously? That's why you were there?”

He nods. “Yeah. I hate Starbucks, but I needed caffeine. Did I ever tell you what the first thing I thought when I first saw you was?”

“I don't think you have,” you respond as you take your slacks off and head over to your suitcase to grab a pair of pajama bottoms.

“'Oh no. He's cute.'”

You laugh. “Seriously? You thought I was cute? Even with my ugly bowl cut?”

“Even with your ugly bowl cut. I was actually kind of excited when you wrote your number down on my cup, to be honest. I'm really bad at hitting on people I don't know.”

“You're still bad at hitting on even _me.”_

“ _Really?”_ He has his hands on his hips now, and you're getting an incredulous look out of him.

“You're terrible, dude. You're just lucky you're hot.”

“How am I terrible?”

“You use terrible pick-up lines, you make bad puns, and you have a tendency to stick your dick against my leg or my ass if we're in bed.”

“Shit. You're right.”

“I'm always right.”

“You're not great either, you know.”

“Seriously? I'm better than you are.”

“You're just as bad.”

“Give me an example.”

“…Look, I can't think of anything off the top of my head, but we've been together for three and a half years. There has to be plenty of examples.” You manage to keep a straight face for about five seconds before bursting into a fit of laughter and walking over to him to give him a kiss on the lips.

“Loser.”

“You love me though.”


	21. Chapter 21

Things are alright for six months. Tyler apparently conspires with Dallon for your birthday, and you get a kick ass surprise party. There aren't a lot of people, honestly, but it's still pretty fun. Pete's there, with Patrick, thank fucking god. You're glad they worked their shit out. (Josh is there, too, but that goes without saying. You're pretty sure he and Tyler are engaged, if the bands around their left ring fingers have anything to say about it.)

A few other models and actors you'd made friends with over the past few years show up too, and, man, you just have a great time.

You visit your mother in the summer, with Dallon, and it's pretty fun. She definitely likes Dallon, and you know this for sure. She's making one hell of an attempt to get to know him better, and to lose her judgmental attitude. It's also kind of nice to actually be able to have a healthy relationship with your mother.

Your father doesn't make any attempt to see you, your mother, or Dallon, and you're oddly alright with it. He's an asshole, and you don't need that in your life. You hang out with Spencer and his wife a little bit, too, and that's also pretty nice. His wife is the fucking bomb. You like her. She's good for him.

In August, Dallon finally follows through on a two year old promise that he'd made to take you to Ibiza. It's warm, and there's an endless supply of cute guys to ogle. It's kind of boring, and the two of you spend the week in the hotel fucking your brains out.

And then, late in September, the fucking economy starts taking a shit. You'd been laying in bed, wrapped in a blanket, and watching the news for once in your life, trying not to freeze to death due to a cold you'd caught, when you hear something about a steep drop in prices within a day. You physically freeze. _Uh oh._

You knew a little bit about the economy from the few years you'd been in college, and from what Dallon would tell you, and you _knew_ that the prices of stocks dropping was _not_ a good thing, especially for Dallon, given that he's a stockbroker. You start panicking a little bit, even though you're well aware that, even without his job, he could still live perfectly fine just from the interest of what's in his bank account.

He comes home an hour or two later, and as soon as he's in the bedroom, he's saying, “I'm fucked.” He kicks his shoes off near the door, and tosses his blazer in the vague direction of the laundry hamper, before laying on his back, on the floor, staring at the ceiling.

“I was watching the news. What happened?”

“Trading was halted for the day, and I'm probably going to lose a fuck ton of money. There's a bunch of panic sellers, and stocks dropped so low today.” He scrubs a hand down his face, and groans. Loudly.

“How much money?” You sniffle, and grab a tissue to wipe at your nose with.

“Twenty mil. Roughly. Might be more, might be less.”

You wince. “You can afford that, right?”

“Yeah, I can, but it's still a lot. _Fuck._ The last time this happened was in 2008, and even then, it wasn't as bad as today. They're hyping it up a bit on the news, but it's still so, _so_ bad.”

You grumble a bit, and pat the spot next to you on the bed. “Get up here. I'll try not to get you sick.”

He lays on his back again, this time on the bed, and starts babbling on and on. “I could lose the house if this gets bad enough.”

“Like I said when the CEO thing tanked; we'll be fine. We can just, like, move to a condo or something. You're being dramatic anyways, dude. We still have my income, and although it pales in comparison to _yours,_ we're both still pretty fucking wealthy. You don't know what's gonna happen.” You cough into your elbow.

“No, listen to me. Like I said, the last time this happened, it was in 2008, and things were just barely starting to get better, yet, here we are, in 2016. We have the election coming up too, and if Donald Motherfucking Trump gets elected, he's going to drive the economy into the ground.”

“We can just move if we have to. I mean, I know it's not as simple as that, but we're rich, so who gives a shit, right? Rent a town house in Vancouver, retire, do Canadian things, and sip some martinis.”

You get a slightly sly look out of him. “You've got a skewed sense of how life works, kid. We could move, but—well—it probably wouldn't work out. Or maybe it would. I have no idea.”

You scoot towards him a little. “You still don't know that any of that's going to happen, though. Just—let's take things a day at a time, alright? Aren't you always telling me that?”

Now, you get a bored look out of him. “I guess there's a chance that this could be a one time freak thing.” He just sighs. “I'm going to go take a shower, then cook something. Do you want anything?'

You take on the most pitiful tone possible as you ask him if he'd be so kind as to make you some soup, and some tea. As expected, he happily complies, what with being a typical doting boyfriend.

 

You're kind of glad that you're sick, because this means that it's one of the rare occasions that Dallon lets you eat in the bedroom, and one of the even rarer occasions that he eats with you. He doesn't give a shit where you eat in the house, as long as it's not in the room you share with him. He's a weird guy. Understandable, but weird nonetheless.

Before he even lets you touch the soup or the tea, though, he hands you a thermometer and tells you to take your temperature. He has four Advil in his hand, which he has plans to make you take in the interest of bringing down your fever if you happen to have one. “Hundred and one. Christ—no wonder I feel like shit.” You hold a hand out and he drops the Advil into it.

“Don't get me sick, or I'll kill you.”

“No you won't. You'll just piss and moan for a week while I take care of you.”

He sits down next to you with his plate of microwaved chicken nuggets, and you stare, enviously, as you sip at your tea and your soup. “Can I have one?”

“No.”

“Please? I'm dying. Just one. That's all I ask.”

He rolls his eyes and holds his plate out to you. _“One._ And no double dipping in the ranch or I'm kicking you out.”

You give him a smug look. He gives in way too easily.

 

As far as stocks and the economy goes, things get worse, and Dallon's income decreases by at least fifty percent, probably more. You up your workload a little bit, and Dallon totally whines for ten years, because; “I wanna come home to you and your dumb smile. Why do you have to work more?”

Josh starts traveling with you instead of Tyler, due to _someone_ taking on more clients than he can handle. Traveling with Josh is a little easier than traveling with Tyler, mostly since he isn't up your ass about work. Sure, he can boss you around when he wants to, but he's at least nice about it. (You really do know that Tyler has good intentions, and that he only wants the best for you, but he can get annoying.)

Josh doesn't really even do much. Literally, all he fucking does is _sleep._ Yes, he sleeps. He sleeps all the goddamn time. How, you ask? You'll never know. You envy him, though. Whenever you travel, for work, you never manage more than three or four hours of sleep per night, yet there he is, sleeping upwards of fifteen collective hours per day.

\---

You're home for Thanksgiving this year. It's a fun one, albeit a little exhausting. Only six people come over, and even though the house is pretty big, it's still just a bit of a tight fit. Your mother flies to New York from Las Vegas, Pete, Patrick, and Pete's kid come over (speaking of, the little dude isn't so little anymore; it's weird), then Tyler drags Josh over, since neither of them are interested in going home for holidays. Honestly, they're worse than you are when it comes to holidays and family.

You and your mother slave over a meal, and after everyone's eaten, you end up sitting on the patio with Pete, and Josh, getting stoned, and trying not to freeze your asses off in the late November New York weather. “Hey, guys, I want input from a third and fourth party,” Pete starts, crossing his fingers, and taking a deep breath.

“What's up?” You ask, before passing the joint to Josh.

“Patrick and I are kind of thinking about adopting another child.” He fidgets, and you try not to 'aww' at him.

“You sure that's a good idea? I mean, if you really want to, then go for it. Also, Brendon, this is shitty weed. Where the fuck did you get it from?”

You roll your eyes. “The guy I used to get weed from got busted, and I've been trying to find someone else who sells decent shit for like two years, but so far, I have nothing. Anyways, back to Pete wanting a second kid.”

Pete _sighs._ “It's, like—adoption is one thing, but we've also kind of been debating on whether or not we should—uh—go with a surrogate mother? Jesus—we don't know what to do. Also, I told you guys I managed to get an alright job, right?”

You nod. “Yeah, man. I mean, if I were you, I'd at least wait until I moved out of that shitty little apartment you live in.”

“Dude, there's no fucking way I'm going to acquire another child while living in a two bedroom apartment. I'm at least waiting for a three bedroom house. Though, none of this is happening immediately. Just—in the future, it's a possibility I guess.”

“You've got my support, dude. Just be smart about it.” That's your answer.

“Whatever I have to say is going to be a variation of what Brendon just said, so I mean…” Josh shrugs, before stretching and letting out some godawful noise as he yawns.

“Okay, Josh, dude—when are you going to marry Tyler? I've been waiting for you two to finally get married for, like, centuries.”

You get the sudden feeling of having heard a pun, but you're not sure why. You don't say anything about it, but you have the urge to whack Pete upside the head for the word 'centuries.' “Fuck if I know. Our relationship progresses at the pace of two snails fucking—very slowly. We probably won't get married until we're, like, fifty. By the time kids come into the equation, we'll probably be seventy-two.”

“Honestly, I fear for any children you have. You'd probably feed them Red Bull and Taco Bell.”

Josh takes his shoe off and throws it at Pete. “Screw you, dude. Do you think I got my physique from Red Bull and Taco bell?” He flexes his arms. “I'm actually quite healthy.”

“I've known you since you were fifteen, and not _once_ have I seen you eat anything healthier than canned green beans. It's a wonder you're not obese. Shit—how are you even muscular?”

“Protein.”

“Pete, dude, you live off of take out and pizza. You're not one to talk.”

“Fuck yourself, Brendon. You're the one who drinks coffee like it's water, and if you're not drinking coffee, you're drinking liquor.”

“For one thing, why would I fuck myself when I have a perfectly fine and well-endowed boyfriend? And, for another thing, that's not true. I drink orange juice sometimes.”

They laugh, before Josh reveals that he, apparently, has no chill whatsoever. “How well-endowed is he, though?”

Of course, Pete has to start in on the harassment as well. “Yeah, dude, tell us.”

You hold your fingers about seven or eight inches apart, and look both of them in the eye. “That's how well-endowed.”

Pete whistles. “You're a lucky man.”

And _then_ Dallon makes a fucking appearance. “Why's he lucky?” He pulls a chair over to sit down next to you. You just mutter something about him having horrible timing.

Josh and Pete are both trying not to laugh, and you're going red in the face. “No reason.”

“Bullshit. What is it?”

“Nothing.”

“Tell me.”

“We asked him how big your dick was, alright?”

You all but shove Pete out of his seat after he says that, and he laughs at you. It's no surprise.

“Can you—could you like—can you not talk about my dick with your friends?”

“You should've told me that four years ago.”

**[note:** **i still hate notes in the middle of fics but after this segment (no reason boner) was in there and the only reason it was there was as a note for me to remember to put that song in the wattpad version of this fic but like. i forgot to take it out when posting on ao3. its like 50% of the reason im reuploading cosmetic.]**

\---

Around midnight, after your mother goes to bed, and after Pete's kid occupies your room to nap until Pete and Patrick decide to leave, the remaining six of you play Never Have I Ever. You know that Pete, Dallon, Tyler, and maybe even Josh are going to make it their mission to make sure you're out first, so you're going to try your best to nail all of them as soon as you can.

A rock-paper-scissors contest takes place to see which one of you goes first, and of fucking course, it's Pete. “Never have I ever gotten plastered, been slipped some E, then fucked one of my best friends.” He's looking you dead in the eye, and, honestly, you want to fly across the circle and wring his neck.

You put a finger down, as does Josh. Dallon gives the two of you looks, and you shake your head. Tyler gives Josh a look as well, and you really just want to die. Why did Pete have to bring that up?

You're next. “Never have I ever came running out of the bathroom at two in the morning, with my dick out, to tell the poor eighteen year old who lives with me and my fiance to look at my wicked boner.”

Everyone fucking laughs, save for Pete, and then Tyler, after he's recovered, says, “He's got you now, fucker.”

“Brendon, you're a bitch.”

“Don't start fights you can't win, asshole.”

“Oh, you're fucking on.”

Tyler's turn scares you a bit, at first. He looks back and forth between you and Josh, trying to decide which one of you he wants to screw over first, before looking at Dallon with a smug look on his face. “Never have I ever shot my load in my boyfriends eye, then gotten him a cake as an apology.”

Dallon just sighs, deeply, as he slowly puts a finger down. “Fuck you.”

Josh is next; “Never have I ever gotten stopped at customs for having a slightly too large bottle of lube in my suitcase.”

You've seen a lot of facial expressions come from Tyler, but you have not _once_ seen him turn so red. Usually, it's hard to see him turn red, since he's, like, super fucking tan. “You're fucking dead, Josh.”

Patrick basically just destroys Pete. “Never have I ever accidentally sent a picture of my own dick to the wrong person.” He also destroys the rest of you, but you know he had intentions of wrecking Pete.

Then, finally, Dallon's turn. You're a wild guy. Okay, you kind of aren't, but you're a little reckless, you know? Sometimes you do things, and you have no clue why you do said things. “Never have I ever downed a lethal amount of alcohol, then thrown it up all over the fucking patio.”

Josh makes a remark about that being oddly specific, and you reach across the circle to whack Dallon in the back of the head. “Asshole.”

“Never have I ever managed to flood my kitchen with dish soap suds after using the wrong soap in the dishwasher.” Again, Pete is looking you dead in the eye, and, god damn it, now Dallon knows you were bluffing that one time you chewed him out for flooding your own kitchen.

You put a finger down, as does he, and, surprisingly, Tyler does too.

“Never have I ever… let my boyfriend talk me into dressing up as a nun for Halloween.”

“Fuck you, Brendon.” And now Dallon is down to six fingers. _Good. Get fucked, asshole._

“Never have I ever...” Tyler looks between everyone now, as if he's an assassin. “...smoked weed.”

He threw himself under the bus too, but you figure that, to him, it was worth it to knock everyone else down a peg.

“Never have I ever single handedly destroyed a marriage.” You're getting a look from Josh, and—

You put your tongue in your cheek, trying your best not to laugh at the very, _very_ offended look Dallon gets as soon as Josh says that. “He _didn't_ destroy my marriage. _I_ did.”

“Then put a finger down, fucker,” You quip at him about as fast as a jet plane.

Everyone lets out a chorus of 'ooh's before it's Patrick's turn again. “Never have I ever fallen asleep, standing up, at an airport.”

Pete, Josh, and Tyler are nailed with this one.

“Never have I ever sucked a hundred dicks over the course of one summer.” You make a mental note about how everyone is suddenly taking turns out of order, but you don't give a shit, because the fucking _look_ on Josh's face is priceless.

“Oh, you piece of shit.” The aforementioned twenty-seven year old reaches across the circle to try and smack Pete. _Ah, yes, the legendary summer of a hundred blow jobs. That was a fucking riot._

Currently, you, Dallon, Pete, and Josh are tied, each of you with five fingers down. You decide to knock Tyler down a few pegs, though, because no one else is doing it. “Never have I ever climbed to the top of a four story building just to spite someone.”

He gives you a venomous look.

“Never have I ever cried after accidentally killing a spider while drunk.”

Josh gets the venomous look next.

“Never have I ever gotten into a pissing contest over who was going to propose first.”

“Brendon,” Tyler gives you a pointed look before continuing, “you're a piece of gossiping shit, and I'm never telling you anything ever again.” _(“_ _Hey, man, look; he's my boyfriend. I get the right to gossip with him.”)_

“Never have I ever been pissed off enough to chew someone out in five languages.”

“Jesus Christ—we're supposed to be ganging up on Brendon, not _me.”_

You give Tyler a smug look.

“Never have I ever yelled at a KKK member in Arabic after hearing an Islamophobic slur.”

You laugh when Tyler puts a finger down. “Isn't Islam about peace?”

Tyler sighs, and gives you a look. “You're not wrong, but that doesn't mean I have to be gracious to every asshole that exists.” (Well, this at least confirms your suspicions about his religion.)

You put your hands up in defense before taking another out of order turn. “Never have I ever kneed my boyfriend in the dick while trying to have car sex.”

Dallon reaches around Josh to shove you with an incredulous look on his face. “Asshole.”

You push Josh over when he takes his turn. “Never have I ever gone streaking through the senior hall of my high school, then had to run three miles, in the nude, home.” It's a long story that you're obviously going to have to explain to your loving boyfriend later. You assume he's going to tease you for at least a week.

Patrick goes again. “Never have I ever spilled tomato sauce on my fiances very expensive white jacket that he cherished dearly.”

Pete squints, and puts a finger down.

“Never have I ever choked on rice so hard I almost threw up.”

“Fucker.”

Dallon leans around Josh again, and tries going in for a smug kiss, but you move out of the way, causing him to face plant into the hardwood floor, and causing everyone else to laugh at him.

“Never have I ever forced my fiance to spend two hundred dollars to replace the jacket.” Pete gives Patrick a shit-eating look, and, oh man, the look he gets in return is priceless. Of course, Patrick is still winning.

“Never have I ever made my boyfriend translate a long as fuck menu from Japanese to English.” Tyler just sighs in defeat and doesn't even try to cuss at you this time as he puts a finger down.

Josh leans over and whispers, “Should I get Tyler out, or should I go after Pete?”

You whisper, “Get him out, dude,” back at him.

“Never have I ever broken my nose while trying to give head.” (You end up learning that the story for this one had to do with a moving vehicle, and someone popping a no reason boner.)

Tyler just stands up and smacks Josh in the back of the head on his way out of the room to, presumably, get a refill on his glass of wine.

Patrick goes, again, out of order. “Never have I ever woken anyone up at eight in the morning by walking into their apartment and yelling about something they posted on Twitter.”

Tyler yells, “Fuck off—I don't have anymore fingers to put down.”

“He was going after me, Tyler. Shut up.” The metaphorical seventeen year old believes that it was you, Brendon Urie, who said this, but he isn't quite sure, since he originally wrote this part roughly four months ago, and can no longer remember who said what.

“Never have I ever shown up at someone's house, and rang their doorbell constantly for five minutes in the dead of winter.”

“Fuck you, Dallon; I was cold and it was _snowing. Heavily.”_

You pray that Pete has it out for someone else that isn't you, since you're down to one finger, but of fucking course, your prayers aren't answered. “Never have I ever stolen a sixteen pack of Capri Sun from my poor, hurt, and confused roommate.”

“You know what, Pete? Never have I ever had to get a tetanus shot from nicking my left ball with a razor.” You get up after saying that, and force Dallon to change his position so you can sit between his legs on the floor and force everyone to acknowledge the fact that the two of you are fucking adorable. (And that your ass is kind of sore from the position you'd been in previously.)

 

Everyone is out of the house by three, thankfully. You can honest to god say that this was honestly one of the best Thanksgivings you've ever had. There weren't any actual fights that weren't playful banter, and the meal was great. You even bonded with your mother a bit, which put you in an even better mood, because, honestly, it's nice to actually have a decent relationship with a parent.

 

By four, neither of you are asleep yet, and, well, the two of you kind of have a rule to avoid ruining sleep schedules: If you're up past four, no sleeping until the next day. The only exceptions are jet-lag or being sick, or if you have a panic attack and can't sleep for a while because of it.

Anyways, the point is, the two of you end up having a makeshift date night; watching Netflix on the TV in the bedroom, sharing a bowl of popcorn, and kind of just enjoying each other's company. It's ridiculously domestic, and it makes you want to vomit.

Dallon's pretty enthralled in the show the two of you are watching, and eventually he groans after something happens, and asks, “Why cant the guy who looks kinda like me just swallow his fucking pride and tell the blonde kid that he loves him?”

“Dallon, this whole fucking show is based around that guy being a dumb ass and not knowing how to properly show affection, and the blonde kid who keeps going back for more, even though the guy treats him like shit half the fucking time.”

He groans again, and rolls his eyes at the show. “Why do you even watch this? It's so—it's so corny, and the acting is so _bad.”_

“It's the only show besides The L Word and Orange Is The New Black with a cast made up of mostly queer people. Given my preference for men, The L Word and Orange Is The New Black don't really interest me, and similar to the rest of my life, I'll take what I can get. Though, the representation does suck, considering the whole cast is white as fuck.”

He lets out a small 'hm' to assure you that he heard you. Another few minutes pass, and he scrubs a hand down his face. “How come the short Italian one is so fucking _annoying?_ Why is he such a little asshole?”

“No one knows. Personally, I think the casting for his character could've been better, but, trust me, I hate the guy about as much as I hate wine.”

“… Brendon, it's episode four, and one of them is already in a coma. What the _fuck?”_

You exhale a little sharply, and blink almost rapidly. “Season one is fucking wild and ridiculously bad. It gets better, though. Trust me. Though, uh, I'm gonna skip most of season one. Like, you can watch it on your own whenever you have the time, but one of them gets into an abusive relationship, and, like, you can probably guess why I don't really want to watch it.” You shrug a little bit, and you have maybe a second or two to feel shitty, before _someone_ kisses you and says something ridiculously sweet/romantic.

 

Around six, either of your phones vibrate from an emergency weather alert via SMS, and as if on cue, the power cuts out as well. “Great. A fucking blizzard. Lovely.”

“Maybe it wont hit us since we're not quite in the city?”

“Brendon, it's up and down the whole east coast. We're going to get hit with it.”

“Do we have any flashlights?”

“Besides our phones, I don't think so. The sun's probably going to come up in a few hours, though, so I dunno. We can just, like, wait, I guess.” You nod.

“Dude—what's the worst snow you've ever seen in New York?”

“2006. In the city, it wasn't actually that bad, like, maybe two feet, but if you got more than ten miles outside of the city, it was upwards of ten feet, not to mention snow drifts.”

“Jesus. That makes me glad I moved here in 2010. I mean, I was also, like, thirteen in 2006, so I could've have possibly been here, but _you know.”_

Dallon cringes. “God, you're so _young.”_

“Okay, but, like, a twenty four year old and a thirty one year old being in a relationship is different than a thirteen year old and a twenty year old being in a relationship. Though, twenty and twenty-seven was a bit of a stretch. No offense.”

“None taken, dude. I kind of agree.” He mutters something about the two of you being fucking lucky that it worked out, before turning his phone screen on for a little bit so he can see your face and go in for one of those dumb kisses that leaves you grinning like an idiot and going back for more. Alright, the whole world gets it by now, but, you are so hopelessly in love with this man that sometimes it makes you want to cry because, Jesus Christ—you're so fucking _happy_ that you have him in your life.

Sometimes you get scared of somehow losing him, because the kind of love you feel for him—it's the kind of love that most people don't get to experience. It's the kind of love that's rare, and it's the kind of love that's just _pure._ Even if the two of you don't work out in the end, you're pretty sure you'll never stop loving him, even for a second. And, of course, with that being said, you, in your deliriously tired state, start to essentially recite what you'd thought.

You pull away from him just a bit, but keep your forehead pressed against his. “I love you.” You can kind of see the small grin on his face from the light that's reflecting off of the snow outside, and after he says that he loves you too, you're saying, “No, listen to me. I _really_ love you.” You move your head to one of his shoulders, and let out a shaky breath before continuing. “It scares the shit out of me sometimes. Whatever it is we have—it's special, and you know how people in all those movies and books always talk about _the one,_ and those loves that not everyone gets to experience? That's the kind of shit we have going on. Everything I feel for you is so fucking intense and pure; it's one of those things that should be turned into a legacy or whatever the word is.”

The next thing you know, you're being tackled into a hug on the bed. You feel like you can't breathe, and you're not sure if it's from him hugging you so hard, or if it's from your nerves and the feeling of your throat closing up from being too overwhelmed. Maybe it's from the pace your heart is beating at, or from the way you kind of want to cry out of happiness. It could be either one.

You almost don't hear him when he starts speaking, but the hand kind of cupping your face and brushing your hair (which you need to get cut again) out of your face gives you a little warning; “Before I get started, I want you to be aware that I'm about to throw some straight up cheese at you.”

You huff, and sneak in another kiss before he continues.

“Before I met you, I guess, I never really thought I'd ever get to be happy and completely satisfied with a relationship, you know? Like, I didn't really have a concept on how the romantic kind of love felt, because I never had the chance, or, well, I never _let_ myself experience it before, but then _you_ came along, and pretty much just obliterated everything I'd been telling myself.”

“I'm flattered.”

He nips at your neck.

You bat at him.

“Let me talk, Brendon.”

“Alright, alright. Loser.”

You can feel the eye roll. “Anyways, look, I was still convinced that I was straight, or that if I tried hard enough then I could be. It's the ambitious businessman in me, probably. Like, deep down, I knew I was gay, but I figured that since I was twenty seven, and since I was married, that it was too late for me to have a _life_ like this; to actually, _genuinely_ love someone the way you're supposed to when you're with them.”

You're hit with the fact that he's still a preachy fuck.

“But like I said, you came along with your strong jawline, and cheekbones fierce enough to kill a man, not to mention your _eyes,_ which are beautiful, by the way. God, you had me wrapped around your finger almost instantly, and, let's be real; you still do. I can yell at people and be an absolute raving shit, I can be a cunt, and I can be overly stubborn and rude to people out of defense, but somehow your _presence_ just kind of—it makes me knock it the hell off immediately, and, Jesus, like your friends are always saying—I am the _biggest_ pushover for you. You hold a lot of power in your queer hands.”

“I still can't believe you thought I looked good, even with my ugly bowl cut.”

“Yes, even with your ugly bowl cut. I mean, I thought you were the most gorgeous person alive, but, in hindsight, your hair was kind of bad.”

You pinch his arm. Not hard, though. “Thanks.”

“Anytime. Y'know, I still mean it when I say I love you more than you could imagine. You should take your friends seriously when they tease you about me pretty much worshiping the ground you walk on, because, like, they aren't wrong.”

_God, he's so fucking sweet. I'm going to get diabetes._

“I think when I started realizing that I was, uh, falling in love with you or whatever,” You can kind of feel your face starting to burn up as he says that. He shifts his position to where his head is on your chest, and you card your fingers through his hair before he decides to continue with his little story; “Basically it scared the shit out of me. Like, it was kind of slow at first, and it started off with superficial things—how you looked, the way you kissed, etcetera, then it just hit me all at once when I started to notice and _love_ the other things. The way you talked, the way you always have an endless supply of topics to talk about; the way you always work your hardest and put one hundred percent of your effort into everything you do; the way you care for your friends, and how you're always willing to drop everything at the drop of a dime if it means you can help in any way you can. Just—you're such a wonderful fucking person.

“Not to mention that you're extremely kind; since the day I met you, you've been nothing but _kind_ to me. You've kind of—okay, this is really fucking corny—you've kind of shown me what _love_ is, and you've been really fucking patient with me over the past four years. I dunno—you've just—you've stuck by me, even through difficult things, and I really, _really_ appreciate it, and you, so, _so_ much. I don't even know where I'm going with this anymore, but, long story short: You're awesome and I love you.”

You sniff a bit and wipe at your eyes, because, let's be real; you're touched. You're touched, and way too in love. When he notices that you're crying, he sits up, saying, “Hey, hey, don't cry. C'mere,” before pulling you up and into his arms. _Why do I have to be emotional? Jesus._

 

You're stuck in the house with Dallon and your mother for three days, since that's how long it takes for _someone_ to actually try clearing the six feet of snow surrounding/sitting in your neighborhood.

 _Someone_ (your mother) takes a picture of the two of you sleeping on the couch under, like, three blankets, the first day of being snowed in, trying to stay warm. She says something else about the two of you being cute together, then some remark about 'young love.' Whatever it is, though, it makes you groan and hide your face from the world.


	22. Chapter 22

You leave on the fourth of December for a job in England, and you get home around the tenth, After dropping Tyler off at his own home, and making sure he actually gets inside alright, given that there's ice all over the fucking ground, you go to your own home. It's about midnight when you walk through the garage, and you're kind of surprised to see some of the lights on. _He's like a grandpa. Shouldn't he be in bed by now?_

Apparently he doesn't hear you come in, because when you step into the kitchen to get a bottle of water, he pretty much just _screams, “Motherfucker!_ Say something, you ass. You scared the shit out of me.”

You stick your tongue out at him. “I came in through the garage, dude. I'm surprised you didn't hear me.”

“You've lived here for, like, four years. You should know that the whole damn place is basically sound proof, and that you can't hear shit unless you're yelling from the balcony over there,” He points towards, you guessed it, the balcony overlooking the lower level of the house.

“Look, dude, I'm used to not having soundproof rooms. Why are you even up?”

“Couldn't sleep and I was also kind of waiting for you to get home. And I wanted potato chips.” He waves his arm in the general direction of the bag of chips that he _forgot to close._ You give him a dirty look as you walk over to the bag to clip it shut.

“Why were you waiting for me? You're usually in bed by now.” You climb to sit on top of the counter next to where he's standing so you can be just about eye level with him. The counter gives you those precious extra eight inches.

He mutters a quiet, “I missed you,” that you almost missed.

You're exhausted, sure, but that doesn't stop you from being a bit of a smart ass, and trying not to smile as you say, “Pardon? I didn't hear you.”

“Yes you did.”

“No, I didn't.”

“I missed you, alright?”

You allow yourself to grin this time. “Prove it.”

He gives you the most pitiful and smallest kiss ever.

“You can do better.”

He rolls his eyes, and gives you a slightly less pathetic kiss.

“Y'know, I'm still not quite convinced.”

He sighs, and lets out a quick 'oh my god' before rolling his eyes, putting a hand behind your head, and pretty much just assaulting you on all fronts with an actually really great kiss.

You manage to say, “Alright, alright; I get it now,” between kisses and small bouts of laughter. Once you get him to calm the fuck down on the kisses, you ask, “Do you think you could rub my back?”

Then _he_ asks, “You angling for some sex?”

“I've been awake for twenty hours and I just spent the past eight or nine hours in the same position on an airplane. I am sore. I don't want your dick in my ass, or vice versa.”

He raises his arms up in defense. “Look, man, I have years of fucking my brains out to make up for, alright? Do you know how long I had to live without doing anything with a guy?”

You roll your eyes. “Is that why you jump me at every chance you get?”

“Probably. Also, you're never home, and there's only so much my hand can do.”

“I have a _job,_ thank you very much, and so do you.”

“And I'm also home at _least_ sixty percent of the year.”

You groan. “Oh my god, _Dallon_ , just shut up and rub my fuckin' back.”

 

You manage to squeeze in eight or so hours of sleep before waking up in a shitty mood. You can't figure out why you're in a shitty mood up until you get a look at yourself in the bathroom mirror. You initially entered the bathroom with intentions of showering and shaving, but you end up wanting to vomit after getting a good look at yourself.

Logically, you know you look perfectly fine. You're an average height, and although you're underweight, like, extremely underweight, your body, at least, is objectively attractive. That's not what you see, though. It's not as if you're hallucinating or anything, because you're not, and you see what everyone else sees, but you just—you perceive it differently, you guess.

You stand there for ten minutes or so, pinching at your arms, your stomach, your sides, your thighs, and any other part of your body you can reach, making a mental checklist of your 'problem areas.' You haven't had a day like this in a few months, mostly since you've been managing to avoid mirrors as much as possible, meaning you've been good at avoiding thinking about your appearance. You despise days like these.

They always happen when you're alone, and when you're not around your friends or your boyfriend. (Or should you say partner? 'Boyfriend' is a little too casual for someone you've been in a relationship with for four years.) You always get stuck in your head, in this vicious cycle of putting yourself down and, in general, just giving yourself a hard time. It sucks. It really sucks.

You hate the mentality that people have, thinking that having a boyfriend or a girlfriend or a partner will suddenly fix all of your problems, and that they'll be able to pick up the pieces, but that couldn't be further from the truth. It helps, of course, to have someone who loves you unconditionally, and to have someone who will support you no matter whatever bullshit you go through, but a relationship isn't the end-all-be-all of mental health, and it's unhealthy to think that it is.

You've never really been one for romantic fantasies of what life is supposed to be like, or what it's like to be miserable. Life isn't some Lifetime movie. The things you go through—the depression, the anxiety, the body image issues you deal with—it's not beautiful, poetic, or whatever romantic term you can think of, and it's not fun. It just—it shouldn't be romanticized. It really shouldn't.

Of course, the stigmas kill you as well. You're not broken. You're a whole person. Sure, you feel miserable a lot of the time, especially today, but you're not _broken._ There's nothing wrong with being or feeling broken, but you know that you're not. Being depressed doesn't automatically mean you're broken.

You also really, _really_ hate how people think that if you're depressed, or if you have anxiety or an eating disorder, that it consumes your whole life, and that it's all you think about. At least in your case, most everything _wrong_ with you tends to be on the back burner. You have priorities, and you have shit to do. You're an _adult_ with a life and a job. You can't let this stuff bug you. Right?

On top of everything else you hate, you definitely hate how people get shamed for being depressed. There's nothing wrong with being depressed, and no one can help it. You'd try talking about it publicly, but you know you'd get a ton of shit thrown your way, like, “You're rich, and you're white; you can't be depressed.” Depression doesn't just pick and fucking choose who it affects. (You won't deny that certain people are more susceptible to it, and that things such as race or wealth definitely have an affect.)

You kind of regret not continuing with therapy past the three months that you'd originally went. You really want to reach out for help again, but you're scared. It's kind of like being an addict or an alcoholic—the first step is admitting you have a problem, which you've done. Dallon still drops comments comments once in a while about how you still need to try getting help, but, no, you're fine. You have your shit together. You're going to be twenty five in a few months. There's no way you could possibly _not_ have your shit together. (That's a huge lie.)

Once you snap out of your little self deprecating space-out, and once you're back in the real world, you're still left with the dumb mirror and what you see. You pretty much just have to force yourself into the shower, and to quit looking at yourself. You're a little late, though, you assume, since it takes every single fiber of your being not to cry in the shower. _I'm not afraid to cry, but I'm not crying in the fucking shower. This isn't a movie._

Why do you want to cry? Well, actually, you want to cry because no matter how hard you try to come to terms with your body, or how hard you try to be healthy or whatever, you _can't._ It's so disheartening and you feel so hopeless thinking about it.

While you're rinsing your body wash off of, you know, your body, you end up pretty much just rubbing your skin raw, and scratching as well. Now, this, you actually don't really know why you do. You just—you feel like there's some _presence_ crawling on you, and that you're in danger for whatever reason.

Your skin burns when you step out of the shower, and you kind of wince on your way back into the bedroom. Realistically, the damage done to your skin wasn't too bad, and you figured it'd heal in a few days, but it still burns a bit. You also figure that Dallon is going to question why your skin is so red, and, it's like—what do you even say?

 _“_ _Hey, I was freaking out and trying not to have a panic attack so I rubbed my skin raw. No biggie.”_

_Ugh._

You stare at your side of the closet for a good five minutes or so before saying, “Fuck it,” and stealing one of Dallon's shirts. It's the one shirt that's too big for even him, meaning you're practically _swimming_ in it. You'd probably just wear a pair of briefs if it wasn't, like, ten degrees outside. The one pair of (too big) leggings you own, though? Definitely warm enough.

 

 **Brendon:** I stole one of ur t-shirts

 **Dallon:** which one

 **Brendon:** the plain white one

 **Brendon:** I guess it's a…………..

 **Dallon:** dont u do it

 **Brendon:** plain white t

 **Dallon:** ur dead 2 me

 

Feeling like shit? The best choice is obviously just to lay in bed, wrapped up in Dallon's ridiculously cozy duvet, watching a shitty sitcom on your phone. Alright, alright, you haven't had a day to just chill and _not_ do anything (at home, at least) in _months,_ so today was as good a day as any not to do a thing.

You end up falling asleep at some point, only to get the shit scared out of you when the bed dips suddenly and you're told to share the blankets. “The fuck are you doing home?”

“Trading was halted for the day and I'm not in a good mood. Why are _you_ still in _bed?”_

“I'm in a shitty mood and napping seemed like a viable option.”

“Fair enough.”

“Why was trading halted?” You ask as you scoot closer to him to leech some of his heat. He's a warm guy. You're spiritually eying the metaphorical seventeen year old, and the metaphorical people peeking in to get a glimpse of your life. _What do you guys expect me to do? Freeze to death?_

He goes on a long winded rant, half of which you don't really understand, given you're not a stockbroker and that you have almost no experience in that industry in the first place.

“At least you're off of work for the next three weeks or so?” You try, pathetically.

“Not really. I have to go on a _business trip_ between the twenty-eighth and the thirtieth.”

You groan. “Stay home. Pay attention to me.”

He huffs and tugs you a bit closer. “As much as I'd love to, I still have a job.”

 

“Okay, you mean to tell me that you're thirty one years old, yet you've never baked cookies before?”

“Look, man, Breezy always did all of the baking. I haven't had the chance.” He's quick to defend himself.

You tap your foot on the tiled floor of the kitchen. “And we've been together for four years. You've had plenty of chances.”

“I can bake cake and brownies. That's about it.”

“Yeah, because you can buy them in a box. We're making these from scratch.”

He grumbles for a second “Why can't we just _buy_ them?'

“Because it's more fun to bake them ourselves, and I'm _spectacular_ at baking cookies. Plus, you need to learn. You're thirty-one. It's pathetic that you don't know how to bake cookies.” You click your tongue at him a few times, then gasp dramatically as he flicks a tablespoon full of flower at you. “Oh, you're fucking _on.”_

“Who says I can't win?” His eyes are shining in defiance, and, oh man, he's just asking for it.

“ _I_ did, and you're totally whipped.” You have a hand on your hip now, and you're pointing a wooden spoon at him. “I have a bowl of cookie dough right here. Don't test me. I can make your life a living hell.”

“And I have eggs and flour. I can make your life an even worse hell.”

“You wouldn't _dare.”_

“To use one of your favorite quotes, 'Don't test me.'”

And that's when you flick a small spoonful of dough at him, hitting him in the cheek. He slowly and very deliberately wipes his cheek off, before placing his dough covered palm on _your_ cheek. Ten minutes later finds the two of you covered just about head to toe in dough, eggs, and flour. It also happens to be one of those times when Tyler just drops in unannounced, with zero warning.

You and Dallon watch him, silently, not quite sure what to say, while he slowly walks over to the fridge, eyes never leaving the two of you, as he grabs leftover spaghetti and a bottle of water. “… Did I walk in on some weird role-play?”

“Lovers' quarrel,” Dallon responds, before he can stop himself.

Tyler just mutters something in Arabic before grabbing a fork and leaving the kitchen.

 

Once you're cleaned up, and once you actually have the first batch of cookies in the oven, you ask Tyler why he's at your house. “I'm bored and Josh is in a pissy mood.”

“Why do you always come here?”

“You're the only one of my friends who doesn't have kids, and who will let me eat their leftovers and watch TV in peace.”

You make an 'o' shape with your mouth, before sitting on the other end of the couch. (A quick thought of 'where the hell did Dallon go' crosses your mind for a quick second. You figured that he'd follow you around the house, but, nope he's nowhere to be seen.)

\---

**[note: i'm putting the next few segments out of order. the first part takes place around january 2017, the second in december 2016, and the third in february 2017. it just flows better that way, but, like... just so u know.]**

\---

Surprisingly, over the course of the past few years, you've never had the chance to actually go to Dallon's work place. To your understanding, he's already pretty high up in the chain of command, _again,_ and that he's, like, a pretty important person. Anyways—the building he works in—it's sensible—four stories, nothing majorly fancy—just enough for whatever the hell it is stockbrokers do with their time.

Today, apparently, was an important day for him. He had a meeting, like, a _really_ important meeting, and today also happened to be the one day he forgot to grab his laptop and his paperwork. He didn't have time to drive back to the house to retrieve the forgotten items, so that left him with _you._

You had to _get up,_ get _dressed,_ drive _all the way to fucking Wall Street,_ then you had to deal with a grumpy receptionist. _I better get one hell of a blow job for this._ It was a little comical, at first, dealing with the receptionist, but after a while, you get annoyed.

 

 **Brendon:** look ur receptionist is being kind of a cunt can u come retrieve me from the lobby

 **Dallon:** Yeah give me a few minutes I'm on the top floor lol

 

When you see him, your first thought is, _'Christ, someone's in a pissy mood.'_ He reams the receptionist for a few minutes, and you realize that, yeah, he really must be an _important person_ if he's able to ream the receptionist without getting in trouble. You get a quick hug, and he thanks you, then plants a quick, chaste kiss onto your lips. “Hey—uh—do you want coffee or anything?” He's jerking a thumb towards the door he'd walked out of, and you shrug nonchalantly, trying not to come off as too eager. Yes, you're trying not to come off as too eager to the guy you've been with for four years.

“Sure. I didn't really have a chance to make myself some before _someone_ woke me up.” You cast him a faux-dirty look, which earns you an eye roll and a stuck out tongue. _Loser._

As you follow him, he bumps you in the arm with his elbow. “Also, by the way, I'm kind of using this as an excuse to show off just a little bit and give you a tour.”

You snort.

“The first floor is mostly just accounting an HR. The break room is down here too, which is where we're headed.” The break room is, like, really nice. It's pretty big, and there's a few tables, plus a couch, a coffee machine, and a microwave. Also, there's a TV. There's a TV in the break room.

“Why's there a TV in here?” You've seen a few break rooms, but you've never seen one as nice as this one.

“So people can watch TV on their break? The boss is a nice guy. He also likes to buy their loyalty.”

You roll your eyes. “You promised me coffee. Hop to.”

“It's not the best coffee. Just warning you.”

“Dump a bunch of sugar and creamer in it then so I can't tell.”

“Why do you even assume I'm making it for you anyways?”

“You're the one who offered, and you're the one who works here. Treat me.”

He calls you something in French, which you don't catch, but you do kick him in the leg. (Lightly, of course.) “Hey, dude, this suit costs more than you can imagine. Don't touch my leg with your dirty shoe.”

 _“Excuse you,_ but my shoes aren't dirty.”

“They're the only shoes you wear. They're dirty.”

 

By the second floor, you have coffee in one hand, and a doughnut in the other. You're taking your sweet time eating it, but the fact that you're eating it is something a little remarkable, so you figure that's a viable excuse. You've been trying to eat more, and for the most part, you're succeeding.

“This is where most of the trading and finagling goes down.” You nod before he leads the way around the floor.

“There's a lot of people here, Jeez.”

“Mhm. Most of the revenue comes from here.” His voice is a little hushed now, especially considering just about everyone is on the phone, trying to sell _something._ “Anyways, this floor is boring, and not at all interesting, so if you would, then please follow me.”

 _What the hell else am I going to do?_ Not _follow him?_

He doesn't bother actually stopping on the third floor, just saying that it contains a few conference rooms, and is used for business and faculty meetings. And _then_ the fourth floor happens. Okay, it's nothing too exciting, just 'administrative' offices, and his office, but you _do_ get to watch him get onto a few people for not actually doing their jobs properly.

His office is nice. It's pristine, organized, and pretty big. There's windows on one of the walls, meaning sunlight, and then there's probably the most comfortable fuckin' couch in the world pressed against the wall opposite of the windows. “So, feed my ego. Are you _impressed?”_

You shrug. “I guess. It's just—it's an office.”

“I've spent two years cultivating this room, dude.”

“And I've spent two years cultivating my award winning personality.”

He squints, and 'hmph's at you.

The two of you bullshit, and totally don't flirt with each other for a good ten minutes, before his assistant pops into the room. See, you were expecting, like, someone other than who it was, not Pete fucking Wentz. _“You're_ his assistant?”

“… Yeah? I mean, I've been working here longer than he has, but, uh, you know.”

Dallon gives you an apologetic look. “I've been meaning to tell you, dude, but I kept forgetting.”

“And I didn't really think it was worth mentioning. Anyways, uh, the guy is here. Conference room three.”

Dallon groans slightly as he stands up, grabbing a folder, before heading towards the door. You tail him until he hits the third floor, then you part ways, but not before a hug that's held for a few seconds too long. Actually, no hug shared with him could last too long, but, like, he has shit to do, so you know.

\---

It's been, what, almost five? It's been about five, yet Brendon's mother still intimidates the hell out of you. She's a nice lady, and she treats you as if you're her second son, but she's stern, and you know if she were to catch wind of you even mildly upsetting her son, then she'd have your head, not to mention your balls, on a silver platter.

So, essentially, she's scary, yet here you are, on a 'business trip,' in Las Vegas, getting ready to ask her for her _blessing._ You thank the lord Brendon actually believed your spiel about a 'business' trip, and that he isn't suspecting anything. You don't even know how you're going to actually _ask_ him to marry you, but you figure that the first step would to be, y'know, asking for his mother's blessing. (You'd ask his father, since you think that's more traditional, but you have no idea where his dad even is.)

The minute the question leaves your mouth, and after your proclamation of love for her son, she's grinning, and nodding, and, well, giving you her blessing. You breathe a huge sigh of relief.

\---

The first of February is the one guaranteed night you get to go on a date with Dallon. It's basically, like, an anniversary, since one of your first dates with him had been on the 1st. It's a normal night, honestly; he takes you to a fancy restaurant, and treats you to decent food and even better alcoholic beverages, but he's acting _weird._ He's doing the fidgeting thing that he does when he's nervous and has something to say. You don't call him out on it, but you are watching him like a hawk.

Of course, watching him like a hawk isn't in vain. After he's paid for the meal, he stops you about four feet away from the table. “What?” You're giving him an incredulous look. As lovely as the date/meal was, and with as much as you love him, you're tired. You kind of just want to get home so you can take a shower and go to bed.

He shifts back and forth for a few moments, and, by now, a few people are starting to look up, then _more_ people look up as he takes a deep breath and drops down onto one knee and—oh, Jesus fucking Christ—he's about to do it. You kind of just—you kind of just look at him, mouth _slightly_ open, eyebrows raised super fucking high, and eyes widening more and more as he goes on a slightly long winded rant about feelings before actually asking the _question._

 _Is he—is he for real? Is this_ actually _happening?_ You open and close your mouth a few times, before actually figuring out how to form the word 'yes' with your mouth. Everyone in the restaurant cheers, and you try not to die from having way too many heart palpitations.

 

Later in the night, after fucking for a solid two hours, the two of you are laying next to each other, on your backs, hands clasped, when you ask, “How long have you even been planning that?'

“About a year and a half. I haven't had any intentions of doing anything up until a few months ago, though. You remember the business trip I went on?”

“Yeah, of course I do.”

“It wasn't actually business. I went to go ask your mother for her blessing.”

You sit up a little bit and give him a _look._ “Seriously?”

“Yes. I did.”

You flop back down. “Oh my god.”

 

Tyler comes over a few days later to throw some job offers at you, and you get about twenty minutes in before he points towards your left hand, and asks, “When the hell did that happen?”

“A few nights ago.”

“Congratulations.”

“Thanks, man.”


	23. Chapter 23

Things are alright for four months and eleven days.

It's a Monday, and you're up around the time Dallon leaves for work, meaning you're up around six. He's gone for _maybe_ an hour or two, possibly three, before he's in the living room, kicking his shoes off, and snatching the remote away from you. You're still tired, so all you can do is let out a pitiful, “Hey!” _I was watching Keeping Up With The Kardashians. Millionaire or not, I still vicariously live through them._

“Shut up and watch the fuckin' news with me.”

He sits down next to you, leaned forward, with his elbows balanced on his knees. There's something on the Today Show about global warming, which causes you to sit up a little bit, saying, “I know you're into recycling and all, but, uh, I don't think this is worth coming home at nine in the morning for.”

You get a _look._ “Do you really thing I'd leave work if I was worried about global warming? Just wait a while. Something will come on.”

And he's right. Something _does_ come on. “That—that has to be a hoax. It's 2017 for fucks sake.”

He doesn't say anything, because, honestly, both of you know it's not a hoax, and neither of you know what to say. It's not really a surprising thing. Things have been getting worse in the United States for a while now, as far as LGBT+ rights go, but you didn't expect this, and you're pretty sure that this is his first time dealing with something like this. It's yours, too, but you're not as affected by it. _He_ is, though. He's shaken up, and you can already see the stress in the way he carries himself.

You've seen enough hate crimes, and bashings, not to mention being a victim of one, and whatever the fuck else over the past fifteen years that it's just—it's not that shocking. It's sad that you're not even shocked. You'd might even go so far as to say that it's fucked up.

Basically, here's a run down of what'd happened:

Across the United States, four thousand two hundred and eighty three people were killed at various gay clubs, gay bars, and even a few pride parades. New York was one of the cities that'd been hit.

It's literally the biggest act of terrorism and the biggest hate crime in the history of the United States, especially considering it was orchestrated and premeditated beforehand, but you just _know_ it's going to be downplayed and disregarded on the news. Pros of living in a mostly conservative country, you guess.

You wrap your left arm around his shoulders, and pull him closer to you. The way he just complies without trying to reciprocate is a little scary. The two of you sit there in silence for a while, before he confesses, in a whisper, that— “I'm scared. I didn't think shit like this actually happened.”

“It—it does. This—this just—this is definitely the worst I've seen, though.”

 

Tyler shows up first, with a stressed out Josh following him. Pete shows up as soon as he gets off work, with his own kid, and Patrick flies in from Los Angeles. (He'd been in Los Angeles for a few weeks at that point, since he was kind of recording for an album.) Everyone just sits there, watching the news, and not saying a single word.

Tyler isn't making any smart remarks, which is a first, and Pete isn't trying to cheer everyone up with dumb jokes. Even his kid is quiet, and the little dude usually has so much to say that it's honestly ridiculous. Josh isn't dropping any of his sly comments, you're not ignoring the news for once, and Dallon's holding you tight enough that you're surprised you can even breath. Shit, even Patrick's showing affection towards Pete, publicly, for once in his damn life.

Everyone in the room is queer. Dallon, Tyler, and Patrick are gay, you're pansexual, and both Josh and Pete are bisexual. It's just—this shit? It's reason enough for everyone to be freaked out. The seven of you are a family, and this is just one of those times that everyone needs to be together.

Things feel grim. If it was a movie, this scene would be black and white, and the camera would dramatically be panning between everyone's facial expressions. You feel as if your heart has stopped, and as if all the air has rushed out of your lungs. At some point, you pry Dallon's arms off of you so you can go out for a smoke. Of course, he tails you, as does Tyler, and Josh. Also, this is irrelevant, but the four of you accidentally stand in a line from tallest to shortest. (Dallon, Tyler, Josh, then you.)

None of you say anything.

 

Pete, Patrick, and Pete's kid leave around ten, but Josh and Tyler spend the night.

 

Tyler slips out for a while at some point to go to a grocery store to pick up the ingredients for a meal. Josh informs you that Tyler almost always refuses to eat anything other than Lebanese food, and that, sadly, you didn't have the things to make what he'd wanted.

You think he's making the meal to distract himself, which is actually a smart thing to do. The food he makes is… it's a little weird. It's not bad, though. They're these, like, dumpling type things. You don't remember what he called them, but, either way, they're pretty delicious. You needed the meal anyways. You hadn't eaten almost all day.

 

Dallon takes a few weeks off of work to give himself time to take a rain-check, and a few days after the twelfth, you find him up at three in the morning, hunched over his laptop in the living room. “Why are you up?”

“I'm—uh—I'm just doing a few things on the internet.”

“What kind of things?”

You make yourself at home next to him on the couch, with your head on his shoulder, peeking at his laptop screen. “I'm on the GoFundMe website and I'm kind of donating a hundred grand to as many of the campaigns as possible for, like, families of the victims of the _thing._ I've kind of gone through about five million so far.” He's muttering, and looking a little ashamed.

“Get that look off your face, Dallon. Also, uh, I don't want to be a dick—but you can afford it, right?”

“I have three hundred in my bank account.”

You choke on your spit a little bit at his nonchalance, and also out of shock.

“I… didn't tell you, did I?”

“Tell me _what?”_

“I kind of made a few good investments and managed to make a good profit on a few stock things, despite the economy.”

“Jesus Christ—why do I even work anymore?'

He shrugs. “Because you wont swallow your pride and spend _my_ money, because I have way more than I know what to do with. Also, Tyler would be out of a job if you didn't work, given you're his most successful client.”

You just shake your head, and lean up a little bit to kiss his cheek. “You're a good guy.”

“I mean, obviously, because you wouldn't be willing to marry me if I wasn't, now would you?”

You chuckle a little bit and kiss his neck this time. You're close to falling asleep when you notice something. “Hey, dude, you do realize you're not donating anonymously, right?”

“I… Did not realize that.”

“Have fun dealing with every non-profit in the world.”

You get jabbed in the arm with an elbow. “Just—look—I need to do something. I can't just _not_ do anything; I've spent too long sitting on my ass, too afraid to help people. I just—I'm gay, and I feel as if I have to look out for my own. I plan on speaking with my accountant tomorrow, and I'm definitely going to disregard his advice, because I—I plan to like, try donating a pretty hefty amount of money to a few non-profits that are trying to fight for more gun control and for LGBT+ rights or whatever.”

“Can I donate some of my money?”

“Go for it. I don't care if you do. It's your money, so do what you want.”

You nod. “I'm getting my laptop then.”

 

Despite the June 12th incident, you still go to Pride in NYC. It's fun, you're in drag, and you look fucking amazing, if you're honest. You manage to talk Dallon into joining you, while also being in drag, but not before having to threaten to withhold sex for six months. He looks so awkward. He's tall, broad, and, honestly, he's the definition of masculine. You totally don't laugh at him a bit.

 

“The last time my balls were up this high, I was thirteen,” Dallon's muttering as he grips your arm something fierce, trying not to fall over in the heels he's wearing. “Jesus—how to women, you, and drag queens walk in these things? I'm going to break an ankle by the end of the day, I swear.”

“Quit complaining and walk with me. Today we aren't boyfriends; we're _girlfriends.”_

“No, we're fiances.” He's a bit snippy with you when he replies, and it takes everything in you not to laugh at him some more.

 

The two of you stop in a fast food restaurant to get a drink, mostly since it's super fucking hot, and you're sweating enough that you're surprised the make up you're wearing hasn't washed off yet. Part of why you're in drag is so that you can avoid being recognize, because, hey, you're not in the mood to deal. The other part of it is that you're trying to be festive. And to give Dallon a hard time.

Of course, while the two of you are having an impromptu lunch date, the monthly dose of homophobia strikes again. It's another case of someone calling either of you fags, along with tranny, and, good god, you've never been more pissed off. You turn around in your seat, and in the deepest voice that passes as normal and not exaggerated as you can manage, you tell the guy to shut up, lest he get a six inch heal up his ass.

The look on his face is priceless.

 

You manage to go a whole two weeks without seeing Pete, but the one time you _do_ see him, it's at Pride, and you're walking hand in hand with your fiance, wearing a fucking dress. You're not embarrassed, but rather dreading the fact that Pete is never going to let you live it down.

You _almost_ get past him before you feel a hand yanking at your bicep and forcing you to turn around to find him giving you the worst shit-eating look ever. Dallon speaks before you get the chance to; “Not a word, or you're fired.”

He just does the motion for zipping his lips shut before you tell him to walk with the two of you.

 

The newest photo you have of you and Dallon is by far the most iconic one. It's no surprise, but there was a group from some evangelical church picketing, so the two of you stopped, shoved a disposable camera into Pete's hands, then asked him to take a picture of the two of you kissing and giving the group of picketers the middle finger. (Like you said, it's iconic, and it ends up being framed and placed on the slowly growing wall of iconic photos in the living room.)

 

“I've let you talk me into a lot of things, but never again am I letting you talk me into going outside in ninety degree weather in fucking _drag,”_ is the first thing out of Dallon's mouth the second the two of you step into the house.

You giggle.

You get a look from him as he sits on the floor to take the heels off. “I better get one hell of a blow job for the hell I've put my feet and dick through.”

 

You sit on the bathroom counter, with Dallon sort of in between your legs, while you get make up off of him with a make up wipe. His eyes are closed, and— “You look really pretty right now.”

“Don't you mean handsome and rugged?”

You crack a grin. “That's one of the first things you ever said to me.”

“Yeah. I know. I still have screenshots of the text conversation.”

“Seriously?”

He nods, and you tell him to keep still before he replies. “Yep. I look at them sometimes.”

“You're so gay.”

“I'm aware. It's your fault.”

You roll your eyes. “ _Honey_ , you've been gay your whole damn life.”

He snorts. “Yeah, you're not wrong. Sometimes I wonder what my life would be like if I hadn't have met you.”

“Hm, I'd like to bet that you'd have a few kids by now, and that you'd be living in a very nice house with a white picket fence.”

He scoffs. “I don't think I can disagree with you. I do want kinds some day, though.”

You nod. “As do I. God, we're probably going to be messes when it comes to kids.”

“We do alright when we babysit for Pete. Maybe we won't be too horrible.”

“Maybe not. Hey, uh, for dinner, I was kind of wondering if I could invite Tyler and Josh over and order take-out or something. Would you be down?”

He nods. “Yeah, man. Take out is always better with more people.”


	24. Chapter 24

“Brendon, how do you feel about acting?” Tyler asks around a mouthful of Mandarin chicken.

“… Why do you ask?”

“Answer the question.”

“I mean, I'd be open to it, but I don't really have any experience other than the four years I was in drama in high school.” You shrug.

“Take a few acting classes then. Not like you can't afford it. Just—look—the point is that I know someone who knows someone, and that someone might be able to get you a small role in a big movie. It's not much, and the pay will probably be for shit, but it could potentially open up a lot of opportunities for you.”

You look over to Dallon, and he just shrugs and jerks his head towards Tyler. You squint. _You're no help._

“Do you have any other details other than that?”

“Not really? It's nothing too extreme. You'd just be an extra, and you'd probably only get a few seconds of screen time. It's in Vancouver. Do you want to do it?”

You nod. “Sure. Why the hell not?”

“Awesome.”

\---

You meet so many actors while in Vancouver. It's so weird, because you're not used to being their peers. They all like you, though, and that's something. You think acting might pan out better than modeling, and that this seriously was a great opportunity for expanding your horizons, and possibly furthering your career along quite a bit.

Aside from, y'know, being in a blockbuster film, you get approached by Ellen fucking DeGeneres. Yes, you get approached by Ellen. _The_ Ellen. Tyler advises you to take the talk show host up on the offer of an interview. “Dude, if you don't do this, I will kill you. I'm serious this time. I will seriously kill you.”

It's kind of weird, sitting in front of a huge audience, with your fiance, Tyler, Pete, and his kid sitting in the front row, and it's weird answering personal questions, but it's… it's kind of fun. You also get to mildly embarrass Dallon on national TV, which totally makes the whole thing worth it. It wasn't anything major. It's just—the photo from Pride, 2017, was brought up, he groaned loud enough that it was picked up by the microphones, and you took the chance to laugh at him again.

“You looked amazing, Dallon.”

You get a shake of the head and a pointed look from him.

 

“Brendon, dude, are you alright? You've been pacing for an hour now.”

You look across the hotel room and make eye contact. “Uh, yeah, I'm fine. Just—the adrenaline or whatever from earlier hasn't worn off yet, and I can't relax. I have a lot of leftover energy.”

“D'you want to take a shower?”

You raise an eyebrow. “Together?”

“Obviously.”

You pretend to ponder the thought for a few moments, before saying, “That sounds nice.”

 

“What's it like? Being on _national television?”_ He's got his hands in your hair, washing it for you, because, like, it's one of those things that either of you do for each other when showering together. It's an affection kind of thing.

“You were there.”

“I was in the audience.”

You shrug. “It wasn't that bad. Mostly I was just nervous, being in front of such a huge crowd and all. Like, I mean, the program is going to be seen by millions of people, but you can't actually _see_ them, so it never really crossed my mind I guess. Also, you, Tyler, and Pete were there, so it was like—if I got nervous or whatever, I could just look at you three.”

“I'm touched.”

“Fuck off and wash my back.”

You hear him laugh, and it definitely brings a smile to your face. “Let me at least rinse your hair.”

“Alright, alright. You know what gets me?” You ask the last part as you turn around to face the opposite direction of him.

“What?”

“That you're still here. I mean, I've put you through a bunch of bullshit, but you're still here.”

He huffs. “It's not as if you're the love of my life or anything. It'd be shitty of me to bail as soon as things got tough. Just saying. Also, I mean, we're kind of engaged…?”

“True. You've got a few good points there.”

“Why are you still here, though? I'm such an ass.”

“Ass or not, you're a nice guy, and I love you probably to death.”

He tugs you a little bit closer to him so he can steal a quick kiss. “This is awfully domestic.”

You nod. “You're right, man. It is awfully domestic.”

\---

“I want to move.”

You look up from your laptop, and take a sip of your coffee before asking, “Why?”

“I want to live somewhere nicer.”

“… Dallon, this house is about as nice as you can get.”

“Yeah, but there's _nicer.”_ He walks over to sit across from you at the dining table. You move your laptop to the right a bit so you can get a better look at him. “I mean, I'm giving you the final say, but I really do want to move.”

You squint. “… Why do you suddenly want to move? There's nothing wrong with this house. Unless you broke something. If you broke something, then tell me, so we can get it fixed.”

“No, no; I didn't break anything. And this isn't sudden. I just haven't said anything.”

“It's sudden to me. What about all of the furniture?”

“We'll take it with us? I mean, I don't want to move right this moment, but, like, at some point in the near future.”

“How near?”

“By the end of the year?”

“No. I get busy at the end of the year, and I don't want to move because I get exhausted. I mean, I assume you'd go ahead and hire people to do the hard work for us, but it's still exhausting moving into a new place, and getting everything figured out. Plus, I'm also going to assume you're going to buy an even larger house, so we'd have to get even more furniture, and—just—can we at least wait until next year?” You also figure he wouldn't dare make you lift a finger, but you don't say that to him.

“Beginning of next year?”

“Snow. And it'll be cold until, like, March.”

“Then March.”

“Maybe. Show me a few houses. Convince me. You sell stocks, so it shouldn't be too hard.”

He fidgets a little bit, and says, “Alright,” before getting up and leaving the kitchen.

 

 **Brendon:** dallon wants to buy a new house oh my god

 **Tyler:** And you're telling me about this because???

 **Brendon:** we pretty much live together anyways so I figured that itd be good to tell u

 **Tyler:** True. Why does he want to move?

 **Brendon:** he wants to live somewhere nicer??

 **Tyler:** the two of you practically already live in a mansion?? jeez

 **Brendon:** ik lol he wanted to move by the end of the year but im always busy towards the end of the year

 **Brendon:** towards the end of the year I like to come home and sleep whenever I can

 **Tyler:** I mean if you wanted me to, I could lighten up on your work load?

 **Brendon:** dude no I like working even tho I piss and moan about it

 **Brendon:** I told him that if he could show me a few houses or whatever that I liked then maybe we could move around march

 **Brendon:** is this what being an adult is actually like

 **Tyler:** man look im almost 28 but I still have no idea what the hell being an adult is like

 **Brendon:** maybe we should ask pete because he has a kid and all

 **Tyler:** Pete is basically a manchild. I mean, he's a good example of an adult, but we all know that none of us have any idea what the hell we're doing.

 **Brendon:** truuuee also are you still coming over today

 **Tyler:** Yeah, man. I was just getting ready to leave the house. Josh is sick, though, so I'm kind of making sure he's alright before I actually do leave. And no, Brendon, I won't get you sick.

 **Brendon:** thanks I appreciate it

 

You hear the printer upstairs going off, then a few minutes later, Dallon's back in the kitchen, sliding four papers across the table towards you. “What are these?”

“A house.”

“Just one?”

“I… might or might not have already bought it.”

“You—you didn't even know if I'd say yes. Oh my god.” You give him an incredulous look. “How much did you spend on it?” You're looking at the papers, now, and, okay, it's actually a really nice house. It's one of those mansions that you could only dream of living in. Two stories, _ten_ bedrooms, four bathrooms, a very, _very_ nice kitchen, then a bunch of other inane rooms. There's a living room, of course, then there's a 'theater,' or something, you're not sure, and—okay—if he was anyone else, you'd say he was compensating. He doesn't need to compensate. Though, you wont complain about having a pool or a hot tub. That sounds nice.

“Are you sure you want to hear?”

“Tell me before I go find out for myself.”

“Twenty five.”

“… Dallon. Please tell me you did _not_ spend twenty five million dollars on a _house.”_

“I did not spend twenty five million dollars on a house.”

“And you're _sure_ you can afford it?”

He nods slowly. “I can afford it.”

“Are you trying to compensate for anything?”

He shakes his head. “Nope. I just want to live in a beautiful house with my _beautiful_ soon to be husband.” He's reaching across the table now to brush your hair out of your face, and you're definitely not red.

“Shut up.” You bat his hand away, and he grins. (You're grinning too, of course.)

“Do you actually want to go look at the house sometime?”

“I mean, we're going to be living there, so, yeah, I'd like to go look at it.”

\---

He takes you to the house the following Saturday. It's bigger in person, if you're honest. “It's a little old, but I think it's worth it.” You nod, mostly in agreement.

“It's a beautiful place. We should plant a few things, though. Just grass is a little boring. Azaleas or lilacs would look good, I think. Maybe lavender, too.”

He nods, and lets out a quiet and kind of meek, “Whatever you'd like,” before placing a hand on your upper back and leading you through the front door. “So, uh, this is the foyer. Obviously.”

You can't help but to stare in shock. “Okay—this—this is really beautiful. Holy shit.” Obviously there's no furniture yet, and the house is empty, and blank, but that doesn't stop it from just—from being amazing.

He nods. “Yep. I was thinking about having the floors redone, though.” He taps his foot on the hardwood. “The hardwood is warped a little bit near the kitchen and in a few other parts of the house.”

“More hardwood or carpet or…?”

“Tiling for the most part,” He slips his shoes off, and instructs you to do the same, before leading you to a different room and continuing; “Carpeting for the living room, and the bedrooms, I was thinking.”

You nod. “Yeah. Tile gets cold in the winter.”

“Hell yeah it does. I think this room would be a good place to drink coffee in the morning or something. The sun doesn't shine directly into the room, so it's not going to blast your eyes.” The room is kind of small, and it leads into a bigger room, but you can picture a small table and a few chairs.

“Can we paint the walls? I hate beige.”

“Yeah. What color were you thinking?”

“White, brown, or maroon. White would probably open the house up a bit more, though, but brown and maroon kinda makes it feel a little more homey. You feel me?”

“I feel. Personally, I'd go with white, but, like I said—whatever you want.”

You look him in the eyes, and squint. “Why are you being so… passive?”

He squints back at you, and just shakes his head. “Never mind. Anyways, follow me.” He leads you to the kitchen next. It's glorious. “Obviously there's no fridge, but we can buy one of course. I'm not huge on gas stoves, so that's definitely getting replaced.” He points towards the island next. “Bar stools would go good there. It'd be a nice place to eat breakfast.”

Next is the dining room. It's a pretty open space, with ceiling to floor windows along one of the walls, overlooking a very pretty part of the yard. “I think we might need to get a different dining table, but, uh, this is a pretty nice room. It's big enough not to get cramped if your friends are over, or if we have family over or something. Which is probably a blessing.”

“It'll also be nice not to eat in the kitchen for once in my life. Is there an office type room, or can we turn one of the bedrooms into an office? Preferably on the first floor. I'd kind of like to have somewhere other than the dining table to go over business stuff with Tyler.”

“Yeah, of course. That can be arranged.”

The living room comes next. It's really, really nice. There aren't any windows within the room, and it seems like a cozy place. You can definitely picture yourself lounging on the couch, watching reality TV and drinking to your hearts content. “Also, hate to burst your bubble, but I would kind of prefer if you didn't smoke in the house. We don't really have any neighbors here, so I don't think smoking your weed outside would be too big of an issue.”

“Alright. I'll try. Uh, the TV.” You shift back and forth for a second, before giving him a very, very slight puppy-dog eyes kind of look. “Do you think we could get a new one? I mean, the one we have is nice and all, but it's too small for this room.”

You can see him practically melt. “Obviously. We could put the one that's in the living room right now into our bedroom, then put the one that's in our bedroom into one of the others here. Or in the office.”

“Office sounds nice.”

“Mhm. There's a bathroom through that door, which has another door that leads into one of the bedrooms.” He leads you through said bathroom.

“Okay, this bathroom is ugly. That tiling is ugly, and the tiling in the shower is horrendous.”

“We can get it redone, Brendon. Also—hold your remarks on this bedroom. The family that lived here before had a child, so this room—it's—it's a little fruity.”

And… he's right. As usual. It's very fruity. The walls are a lilac color, and there's a bunch of corny designs all over them as well. “This room is definitely getting painted.”

He nods. “Of course. All of the bedrooms have walk-in closets, by the way.”

You walk over to the closet in the room. It's… pretty big. “Jesus. I don't think either of us, combined, have enough clothes to even fill _half_ of this.”

“Well, think of it this way: You can shop as much as you want.”

You snort. “I'll take that into consideration.”

The _theater_ is basically a glorified living room in your opinion. “I want this room to be maroon. I don't care if it doesn't match the rest of the house; I want maroon.”

“I think if we put a few couches in here then it'd be a great room. We could possibly also get one with a fold-out bed. That'd, like, be fun, I think. Also, uh,” he points to one side of the room before continuing; “there's a bar in here. And a mini-fridge.”

You walk over to the bar, and, much to your surprise, you find a bottle of vodka. “We're getting lucky already.” You're raising your eyebrows, and he's rolling his eyes.

“We're not getting drunk in the middle of the day.”

“You're no fun.”

“We have other things to do. For example, grocery shopping. We don't have anything worth eating back at our actual house.”

“Who said that _you_ had to get drunk?”

“No.”

You grumble.

 

“And this is the bedroom that I think is worthy of being ours.”

It's upstairs, and it's a great room. “I think we should paint the walls in this room a dark blue kind of color. And not a super saturated kind of blue either. I think it would look nice. We could also get some black curtains for the windows. That'd look good too.” You're standing in the middle of the room, slowly turning in circles, trying to envision what you're saying.

“I like blue. Obviously the bed is going against that wall,” he points towards the windowed wall of the room. “Then the TV would be on the opposite wall. The dresser and the wardrobe would probably go over there, and I think getting a ceiling to floor mirrors would be a good idea. Also, the closet in this room is, like, really big. You should look.”

You look. It's probably about the same size as your bedroom back at your parents' house in Las Vegas. “Okay. I'm definitely going shopping.”

“Good. Anyways—do you think this is the right room?”

“There's only one way to be sure. Could you picture us fucking in it?”

He snorts and laughs. “Christ. I think I could picture us getting it on in every room of the house. We need to christen it somehow. Oh, also—” He steps over to the light switch, turns the lights on, then dims them. “There's mood lighting.”

“Even better.”

 

You never thought you'd say it, but going home feels a little underwhelming after spending a few hours walking around a _mansion_ that you're going to get to call home within the next year. You thought you'd be super against moving into a mansion, but, surprisingly, you weren't once you actually got a look at it. It's a ridiculous place, it really is, and you don't _need_ it, and neither does he, but, hey, what the hell? Why not?

Once you're home, you leave again. For the first time in probably six months, you go straight to Tyler's house instead of Pete's condo (he moved into a condo about a year ago; it's a nice place) to talk about your day. Dallon is fun to talk to, but sometimes you prefer speaking to a friend rather than your fiance. Oh, god—you're still not used to calling him your fiance, even though it's been, like, six months.

Josh answers the door, and he looks dead tired. “Man, I love you and all, but what the fuck are you doing here this early?”

“Josh, it's noon.”

“I said what I said.”

“Is Tyler here?”

He grunts and shakes his head. “No, but he'll be back in an hour or so if you want to come in and like… watch TV or something.”

You nod and follow him as he steps further into the house. “Do you need something important from him or are you here to gossip and bullshit? Also, do you want an energy drink?”

“The latter, and yeah, I do.”

“Is it some Tyler-exclusive kind of stuff or can I get it on the secrecy?”

“I mean, it's not so secret, and doesn't Tyler tell you everything anyways?”

“For the most part, yeah.”

You take a seat on one of the bar stools in their kitchen as Josh hands you the promised energy drink. “Tyler told you that Dallon bought another house, right?”

He nods. “I heard it was pretty pricey.”

“Oh, hell yeah it was. Anyways, we went to the house today to walk around, and so he could show me a few of the rooms, right? It's a _beautiful_ house, and at first I didn't think I'd actually want to live in a place so _big,_ but I'm actually kind of excited to move, you know?”

“How nice is it?”

You pull up a photo album on your phone, then hand it to him. “Those are some of the pictures I took of the house.”

He scrolls through them, and whistles. “Damn. That—that's a nice place.”

“Yeah. We're going to have the walls painted a different color, because beige is honestly the worst.”

He deadpans. “Wow, thanks.”

“Look, man, your house is nice, but your walls are horrible.”

He rolls his eyes.

“Anyways, the walls are going to get painted either white, brown, or maroon—I haven't decided yet—and the hardwood is messed up in a few places, so Dallon was thinking about having tiling done throughout the house, then carpeting done in the bedrooms and a few of the other rooms.”

“I'd go for maroon if it were me. Though, it looks big enough that you could probably do other colors too. Just—nothing ugly, alright? I'm not gonna be living there, but I'll be criticizing you if it's tacky.”

You snort. “Yeah, yeah. I dunno—Dallon said I could do what I wanted as far as walls and furniture goes.”

“And you're _sure_ he's not your sugar daddy?”

“Literally, go fuck yourself.”

He cackles slightly. “Alright, alright, I kid. I call first dibs on getting a tour, though.”

“I'll see what I can do. I told Dallon I wanted to move around March of next year, but now I kind of want to move by the end of the year like he wanted in the first place. I'm excited.” You groan, and press your face against the top of the island.

“Yo, man, I'd move ASAP. You should throw a housewarming party whenever you do.”

“I'll take that into consideration.”

 

Once you're back home for the second time that day, you leave, again, almost immediately, for the third time, since Dallon still wants to go grocery shopping. He's thirty-two, yet, for some reason, he is still inept when it comes to grocery shopping. Honestly, if you let him go grocery shopping on his own, you'd probably end up with a sixty four pack of the pack ramen and a case of energy drinks.

 

You would've been fine if he would've just asked you to hand him something from the bottom shelf, but of course, he starts the request off with, _“Honey,”_ then finishes it with, “could you hand me that?”

Your head snaps towards him, and you ask, “Did you just… did you just call me _honey?”_

He looks up from the grocery list, and blinks at you a few times. He opens and closes his mouth, and makes some weird strangled noise, before saying, “Shut up,” with a red face and furrowed brows. “It was an accident.”

“How is calling someone 'honey' an accident?” You toss the item he'd asked you to grab into the cart before leading the way to a different aisle.

“It just slipped out. Anyways—you're not one to talk. You call me 'babe.'”

“Yeah, but 'babe' is different that 'honey.' Also, you're a babe. Like, totally hot. You can't blame me.”

“Quit objectifying me. I love you, but objectification is where I draw the line.”

“Live a little.” He sticks his tongue out at you, and you roll your eyes before walking over to him. You grab the lapels of his blazer, and tug him down to your level so you can kiss him. “Dallon?” You're using one of your _tones_ that you usually use with him when you either want something from him, you want him to do something for you, or you're trying to extort him for sex.

“What?”

“You're gay.”

He scoffs pretty loudly, and playfully pushes you away from him. “Get off of me, you dick.”

You giggle, then try not to let the mischief show on your face as you smack his ass while walking past him. He gasps, way too dramatically, and does the unexpected—he smacks your ass right back. You hear an old woman clear her throat before seeing her give the two of you a dirty look, and, honestly, all you can do is just look her dead in the eye until she looks away. _Let me joke around with my fiance. Christ._

_\---_

Surprisingly, the walls in the new house get painted, and the floors get redone in almost record time. You ended up going with maroon walls in most of the rooms, aside from your bedroom, which gets painted an unsaturated dark blue kind of color, and the office, which gets painted white. New appliances are put into the house before any actual moving commences.

It's kind of weird. Like, moving, at least. You go through the house, and gather up every single framed photo, and every poster hanging on all of the walls. Surprisingly, there's a lot. Like, two boxes worth. You're careful as you wrap picture frames in bubble wrap, and as you stick posters into tubes.

The two of you end up renting a U-Haul then asking Pete and Josh if they'd come over to help move everything, since, out of your friend group, either of them are the most physically capable. Most of the furniture goes to the new house, but the desk in the office, and the dining table plus the chairs, get put into the Goodwill pile. There's a few other bits of furniture and décor that go into the pile as well.


	25. Chapter 25

The first night in the new house feels even weirder. You're still in the same bed, with the same guy, but the room is different, and the house sounds different. The floorboards don't creak as much, and you can't hear the humming of the fridge, or the minute little drip-drips of the leaky faucet in the master bathroom that neither of you ever bothered to get fixed.

The way the light shines through the window during the night is different too. It doesn't hit your face in the morning, though, so that's something you don't mind at all. It smells different too. It smells too new. You can't smell Dallon's shitty body wash, or the laundry detergent either of you use, and you can't smell the air freshener that used to be in the bedroom at the old house.

The air conditioning is weird too. It kicks on a few times during the night, and although it isn't loud, it's still enough of a disturbance to where you notice it. Dallon sleeps like a baby, whereas you get maybe three or four collective hours of sleep. You keep waking yourself up on accident, usually with a bit of a jump, and the next part is actually pretty irrelevant, but, out of reflex, Dallon tugs you closer to him every time you wake up, and it's pretty sweet.

 

You get woken up around nine. “Brendon, dude, wake up.”

 _Groan._ “Dallon, c'mon, I was sleeping.”

“I forgot to do something important.”

You open your eyes a little bit to look at him. Oh, god, he's giving you one of his cute faces that he _knows_ will break your resolve within a matter of minutes. “What?”

“I forgot to carry you over the threshold.”

“We aren't even married yet.”

“Pretend we are, then. I'll do it again after we're married. Get up, though, I wanna do this.” He's tugging at your arms, and you groan for the second time before giving in.

He scoops you up in his arms almost the second you're on your feet, which pulls a little bit of a yelp out of you. “Christ. Give me some warning.”

He struggles a little bit when he has to open the front door, but he manages, and you get kissed before he carries you back inside. “Dallon, you're such a goof.”

“Look, a man's gotta do what a man's gotta do.” You gently get placed into a standing position once the door is closed behind him.

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever floats your boat. You better make me some coffee in exchange for waking me up.”

“Already done.”

You sigh, wistfully. “You really must be the one.”

“Oh, shut up, smart ass.”

 

The morning is way too domestic. It's not a bad thing, but it's pretty damn domestic. It's nothing out of the ordinary either, other than the two of you being in a different house. You sit in the living room, which is currently lacking a TV, and which is in dire need of a coffee table, sipping coffee, and sharing a plate of food with Dallon. “So, do you have any big plans for today?”

You shrug. “I was thinking about going over to Pete's condo and using his internet since we don't have any yet. I was also thinking about doing a little bit of grocery shopping, and maybe hitting up a few second hand stores to see if I can't find some cool furniture.”

“We could just buy new furniture. In fact, I'd prefer to do that.”

You shrug for the millionth time in your lifetime. “Or I can go to IKEA. Or somewhere else.”

“Do not go to IKEA. I hate putting together IKEA furniture.”

“I'll go somewhere else then. Geez—you're picky, dude.”

He rolls his eyes. “You are too.”

“D'you got any plans for the day?”

“I was gonna go to Best Buy and look at the TVs, but I'd kinda like you with me for that, since you're the one who uses the TV mostly. After that, I was planning on going somewhere for lunch, then, like, going to a Starbucks or something to use the internet and do some online shopping.”

“Or, we could do everything either of us want to do, _then_ you could go with me to Pete's condo to use his internet.”

“Okay, but, like, he's your friend, and I feel weird about just showing up to use the internet.”

You roll your eyes. “Dude, he'd probably let you come over and trash the place if you needed to. Anyways, he's your friend just as much as he is mine, plus you see him more than I do anyways.”

“But that's work, and work is different from not work.”

You roll your eyes. “And a good portion of my friendship with Tyler is work stuff yet he's one of my best friends. Do you seriously not have any friends?”

He shrugs a little sheepishly. “There's one guy at work I talk to at the water cooler a bit, and there's an intern I talk to sometimes, but other than them, I don't really have any friends other than yours. I mean, I _know_ people, but you feel me, right?”

You nod. “What's the water cooler guy like?”

“Shorter than you are, and his voice is ridiculously nasally. He's pretty funny. He has a kid and he talks about her all the damn time. It's kind of endearing.”

“How about the intern?”

“I think she'd be better suited to being your friend, honestly. She's twenty-ish I think, and she has really awesome hair.”

“How awesome?”

“Like, really vibrant greenish-blue awesome. Honestly, I have no idea what the hell she's doing working as an intern at a stockbroking firm. She's dropped comments about wanting to go into acting, and it's like—please, for the love of god, go do that. I enjoy being filthy rich, but I hate my job sometimes.”

“You should give her Tyler's work number. I'm sure he'd be able to pull a few strings for her. Honestly, he's a miracle worker. I give him shit, but he's good at his job.”

He hands you his phone. “Write down his work number and set it as a reminder for Monday for me. Also, tell Tyler, so he doesn't chew me out. I don't know why he would, but he's a testy guy.”

You huff. “Yeah, man. I'll do it.”

 

Dallon points at one of those weird curved TVs. “How about that? It looks cool.”

“We need something we can mount on the wall, so it's a 'no' from me. What about that one?” You point to, you know, another TV. Honestly, it's a big surprise. What with pointing to TVs while shopping for them and all.

“Do you think we really need an eighty inch TV?” He gives you a little bit of a questioning look.

“You told me whatever I wanted, and I want an eighty inch TV.”

“Alright, alright. I'll keep my word. _Whatever you want.”_

You stand on the tips of your toes to kiss him. “Thank you.”

“Anytime.”

(The TV is set to be delivered to the house sometime during the week.)

\---

Grocery shopping goes by about the same as it usually does, then he pulls some grand gesture out of his ass for lunch. He takes you to the bar/diner that he'd taken you on your first 'date' with him. Like, the date before he kissed you in front of your apartment. That one. He even manages to get the exact same booth, and it's so nostalgic. “You trying to get in my pants with all this romantic stuff?”

“If I wanted to get into your pants I'd just ask.” You feel his foot hit yours under the table. “I just thought that it'd be nice to do something romantic for lunch. We haven't gone out to eat in a long time.”

After either of you order a meal and a few non-alcoholic beverages, you start talking. “When we came here the first time, I was trying way too hard to impress you. I thought you were so far out of my league, but then you _kissed_ me, and, well, here we are.”

He chuckles softly. “I was trying a little too hard myself, if I'm honest. I just wanted you to like me. I figured I was too old for you, and that you'd move on or whatever. Also, I mean, I was kind of married.”

“Oh, _please_. I was whipped the second I saw you. Whenever I'd talk to Pete about you, I would literally never shut the hell up. It was 'Dallon this' and 'Dallon that' every day for at least three months.”

“I still laugh about how all we did was make out. I mean, I was way too nervous to do anything _more_ than that, but it was a little ridiculous.”

“Let me tell you—usually with someone, I probably would've been annoyed about not having been able to fuck around with them after two months of that, but with you I just felt lucky enough to even be near you, so I was, like, totally okay with it. I was smitten.”

“As if you aren't still smitten,” He mutters with a playful raise of the eyebrows.

“Do you want me to take this engagement ring off?”

He lets out one of those shrieking-gasps, acting offended. “I was _joking_.”

“The fuck was that noise?”

“I don't know, but, you're not breaking this engagement off.”

\---

Pete looks like a mess when he opens the door to his condo. “Oh, thank _god_ you're here. Can you—can you try talking to my kid for me? _Please?_ He's been upset _all day_ and he wont talk to me or Patrick.”

You quirk an eyebrow, and give him a slightly concerned look, before replying with, “Uh, yeah, sure. Do you have any idea what's wrong, or…?” You're asking the last part as you step into the condo, followed by Dallon. Pete just shakes his head, and begins to lead you to his living room.

His kid is sitting on the couch, wiping at his eyes, and sniffling pretty intensely. His face is all splotchy, and his eyes are bloodshot. You crouch down in front of the couch. “Hey, little dude. What's wrong?” You also look up at Pete, and Dallon, and motion for them to leave the room. Thankfully, they do. Well, Pete does, at least. You can see that Dallon's totally lurking, mostly from his shadow being cast on the floor near the staircase. You don't call him out on it, though.

The kid shakes his head. “S'nothing.”

“I think you're full of crap. Something's wrong, or y'wouldn't be crying, now wouldya?”

He just sighs then starts explaining about how he had a crush on _someone,_ and you notice that he's being deliberate about not indicating anything about the gender of the person. Anyways, apparently, the little dude had a crush on another kid, and when he tried approaching the other kid about it, the other kid embarrassed him in front of his whole class, and that, now, no one will quit teasing him, and, yeah, alright, you can sympathize.

“Have you told your teacher or your principal?”

He shakes his head.

“Why not?”

He kicks one of his legs out, then back against the couch, before saying, “Because it's a _boy,”_ then bursting into tears. Again. He goes on about how other students are calling him names, and how everyone is just being absolutely terrible, and, man, if you were this kid's father—you'd be up the school board's ass.

Once he's calmed down a little bit, you ask him why he wont talk to Patrick or Pete, and he says that it's because he's afraid of disappointing them for whatever reason. “You could probably kill the president, yet they'd still be proud of you. D'you want me to tell them with you?” He just nods, meekly, and lets you grab him by the hand and lead him to wherever the hell Pete had gone.

\---

After your shower in the evening, you're laying on your bed, in your underwear, on your stomach, watching a video on your phone when you hear a few light taps on the door frame. You crane your head around to find Dallon watching you with one of his dumb, fond little looks. “Sup?”

“Uh, nothing. I wanted to know if you wanted anything for dinner.”

“Were you going to cook something?”

He shakes his head. “I was thinking about picking up a pizza or going and grabbing some take-out. Or if you wanted something specific, I'm willing to go get that too.”

You think for a few moments, before deciding on take-out.

“What about drinks?”

“I'm jonesing for a milkshake. If not that, I guess Sprite will do.”

He nods, and steps into the bedroom to grab a pair of pants. He absolutely refuses to wear sweatpants or pajama bottoms anywhere unless it's an emergency. He's ridiculous. You turn your head away from him and go back to watching the video, and you only get a few more minutes in before the bed dips, and he's flopping down next to you, with an arm thrown across your back, and his face pressed between your neck and your shoulder. “You look beautiful right now. And hot.”

You snort, and move your left arm up enough to where you can run your hand through his hair a little bit. “Keep it in your pants, buddy. Go get me dinner.”

He whines a little bit, and you're pretty sure he's trying to give you a hickey before he actually replies. “Why can't I just say home and eat _you?”_

You make a gagging noise. “Oh, god, dude, that was really bad. I'm supposed to be the raunchy one. Can we save the sex for until after we eat? I'm kind of hungry.”

He sighs. “I suppose.”

\---

“Brendon, I need a favor.”

“Tyler, I didn't give you a key so you could barge into my bathroom while I'm brushing my teeth to ask for favors.” You spit your toothpaste into the sink, and before rinsing your mouth out, you ask him to tell you what he needs.

“Fuck off—look—you know your way around Vancouver, right?”

 _What the fuck?_ “I mean, I guess?” You walk past Tyler on your way out of the bathroom so you can continue to get dressed. “Why?”

He follows you, and sits on the edge of your bed before continuing. “I took on that one person Dallon referred to me or whatever, and she has an acting thing in Vancouver around the time you have the next IVO shoot and around that time I kind of need to be in Lebanon for a family thing.”

“So, you figured that since I'm going to Vancouver for a photo-shoot around the time you're supposed to be in Lebanon, that I should babysit your new client. Am I wrong?”

He makes eye contact with you through the mirror. “No. Look—it's only for a few days, alright? Family comes before work. Also, I'm not the one with the contract. She is. She can't breach it, or not show up, because the fine would be pretty hefty, and she's a starving artist basically.”

“What all do you need me to do?”

“Her acting thing is on a different day than your photo-shoot, so you need to make sure she gets to the place on time, make sure she does what she needs to do, and then you can just—you can come home after that. Can you do that for me?”

You shrug. “I might as well.” You also might or might not be a little grumpy. You're still not quite awake, and you have a meeting with your modeling agency in about an hour, which you're not looking forward to. It's nothing that important, but you're still stressed out over it a little. “So, I go to Vancouver with her, make sure she gets her job done, then I do my job, then we come home. That's it?'

“Basically, yeah.”

“Alright.”


	26. Chapter 26

You wake up to a hand gripping your bicep, early on a Saturday morning, and a familiar voice saying, “Hey. I'm home.” You crack open an eye to see pretty brown ones staring right back at you.

“Hi.”

He sits on the floor next to the bed, then you feel a hand running through your messy bed-hair. “I know I was only gone for, like, a week, but I missed you.”

You crack a groggy little grin. “I missed you too.” After saying this, you allow your eyes to open all the way so you can take his face in. The bags under his eyes are unnecessarily dark, and his face is looking bonier than usual. He's also looking just a little clammy, so you decide to ask, “Have you eaten yet?”

“Been busy. Haven't had the chance in a few days.”

“You need to take care of yourself.”

He nods. “I know. I've been trying.” You allow your eyes to close for a few moments, but then he's grabbing your left hand from its place curled against your chest. (You lay in awkward yet comfortable positions.) There's fingers being intertwined with yours, and lips pressed against the back of your hand. “I still can't believe I'm going to get to call you my husband one day.”

“Ditto.” You yawn, loudly, for a quick second. “Can I make you something to eat? I mean, I need to eat too, so it'd kill two birds with one stone I guess.”

“Only if you make me an omelet.”

As you're sitting up, you say, “I think that can be arranged.”

 

You like where the stove is placed in the new kitchen, because it's placed in such a way to where you can watch him while you cook. It sounds a little dumb, to you, at least, but it's just one of those small things you enjoy. He always gives you this adoring little look, and it just befuddles you. You _know_ that he loves you more than anything, and he's constantly showing you as well, but it's weird that someone could love _you,_ of all people, so much.

“Quit looking at me and cook my omelet, dude.” His tone is laced with a little bit of a whine as he looks up at you with a playful little frown spread across his beautiful face.

“You're too beautiful, though.”

He's hiding his face now, and you're grinning. “Shut up and fix me breakfast.”

 

Half an hour later, you're laying on your back, on the couch, with Brendon tucked into your side, sleepily telling you about how Vancouver had went. He tells you about how one of the photographers had tried hitting on him, and he tells you a story that you're going to assume he fudged up at least a little bit just to try and draw a few laughs out of you. (Obviously he succeeds.) “How was work?”

“Same as usual. Did business stuff. Sold some things. Made money.” You shrug as best as you can before holding him a little closer.

You feel him nod, and a few moments of silence pass before he asks, “When do you think we're gonna get married?”

“I was hoping for next summer, but we actually do kind of need to talk about it.”

“What do you think I'm doing?” He kisses your jaw, and you mess his hair up a bit. He calls you an asshole. “I want gardenias. I also want you to get your hair cut. If your hair looks like this when we get married, I will seriously murder you.”

You snort. “I haven't had the time, dude. I've been working.”

“So have I yet I maintain my perfect head of hair.”

“You get your hair trimmed almost every single week.” You lightly pinch his bicep. “Sadly, _I'm_ not a model.”

“You're just a boring stockbroker with a model for a fiance. You're literally a stereotype.”

You grunt, because, hey, he's not wrong.


	27. Chapter 27

You knew that one day you'd become a parent, but you didn't expect it to happen like this. It's a messy situation, if anything. This particular story is being told a few years in the future, so you'll backtrack to January of 2018. You're sitting on the floor on the living room, on one end of the coffee table, and Tyler on the other, helping the aforementioned twenty-nine year old with his taxes when the doorbell rings. You're not expecting anyone, and solicitors aren't common in this part of New York, so you're a little confused. You get up to answer the door anyways, though.

You don't know what you were expecting when you opened the door, but you definitely weren't expecting Dallon's ex-wife to be standing there, sniffling, and dabbing at her eyes a little bit. The last time you'd spoken to her had been after Dallon's parents had died a few years previous, so you're a little out of your element. “Uh.”

She sighs, and looks at you, asking, “Is Dallon home?”

You shake your head. “Afraid not. He's at work. He'll be home in a few hours though, if that helps?”

She sighs, and looks away for a second. “I'll just—I'll come back later.”

You frown slightly. “Hey, you can—you can stay here and wait, if you want? I have someone else over, though, if you don't mind.”

She seems to consider your offer for a few minutes before accepting. You step aside, and motion for her to come in. After closing the door, you ask her if she wants anything to drink. Water is requested.

You end up shooing Tyler out of the house, after promising to help him with his taxes later. Dallon's ex-wife is keeping her lips sealed, and isn't wanting to tell you what's wrong, at least until Dallon gets home. She doesn't want to repeat herself more than once, and you can understand where she's coming from, definitely.

You make small talk with her for a few hours, until Dallon gets home, and the three of you are sat at the table in the dining room. You and Dallon are on one side, she's across from you, and Dallon's trying to get her to remove her head from her hands so she can actually speak and tell either of you what the fuck's going on.

It probably takes half an hour, but, eventually she does start talking. “I'm dying.”

You can see the look on Dallon's face, the one that means he isn't sure how to respond, so you decide to ask, “Figuratively, or literally?”

“Literally.”

_Oh._

“In October, I went to a doctor because—uh—because I kept feeling these sharp, stabbing pains in my abdomen. I had an MRI scan done, and it was lit up like the Rockefeller plaza around Christmas.” She starts crying pretty quickly after she continues. Not ugly crying, but more of a silent kind of crying. “It's cancer, and it's—it's spreading and metastasizing. It's literally everywhere. It's—It's not in my brain yet, thankfully, but its in my liver, colon, bones, ovaries, and lungs—just—I don't—fuck. None of the treatment is working.”

Dallon sounds a little rude when he actually responds, and you almost smack him upside the head. Almost, though. You manage to resist the urge. “You wouldn't be here if it was _only_ that. What else is there?”

“I'm—I'm sorry. I really didn't—” _hiccup,_ “—mean for things to be this way, I really didn't.”

You see Dallon go to say something else, but you pinch him hard in the thigh, and give him a warning look, trying to tell him to keep his mouth shut, and to wait for her to say something on her own.

You end up asking, “What is it?”

“I have a daughter.”

And then Dallon tenses up. You can kind of sense what's coming next. “When, um, was she born…?”

“April 30th.”

“What _year_?”

“2013.”

Dallon thinks back a little bit. “And the last time we did anything was in August of 2012, wasn't it?”

She nods.

He's quiet for a few minutes. Like, deathly quiet. “Why the _fuck_ didn't you tell me?” His voice isn't raised. In fact, it's quieter than his talking voice, and he's using a very steady and even tone.

“I didn't even find out I was pregnant until December, and I couldn't exactly ask you to cancel the divorce and come back. We—we were both unhappy. It wouldn't have been fair.”

“I could have _helped._ I could've helped.”

You debate on saying the next part in French, but you figure it'd be a little pointless to do so. You grab Dallon by the ear, and yank him towards you, whispering, “Watch your fucking tone,” into his ear. “I get that you're frustrated, but try to act like a decent person.”

The three of you sit there talking for a while, and, basically, you and Dallon make plans to go get a marriage license within the next month or two, mostly to avoid complications with _custody._ Either of you agree without any hesitation to care for the child, and, well, that's how that goes. It's messy, and it's not fun.

 

The week following the _talk_ goes by a little slowly. You think either you or Dallon just go through the motions up until Friday night. It's late, like, really late, and he's holding you almost the tightest you think he ever has, as if he's afraid you're going to disappear, or as if you're suddenly not going to be real anymore. “You can leave, if you want. If this is too much.” His forehead is pressed against your shoulder, and you think you might be able to feel tears. You're not sure yet.

“I'm not leaving you. I wouldn't have agreed to marry you if I was going to bail the minute things got tough. For better or for worse, right? If I was going to leave you, I probably would've left you a few years ago when you lost your job. Or I would've left you when your parents died. Or after the fight we had in Japan, or the fight we had before I went to therapy for, like, three months. Or I would've quit talking to you after I found out you were married. I've stuck with you through all of that, so why _now_ would I leave you?”

“I don't know. I really don't. This is different, though. None of that's the same as me asking you to father a child with me.”

You roll your eyes. “We've spent the past year getting ready to make a life long commitment to each other. We would've ended up with children either way. It's just happening in a way we hadn't planned for. Life does that sometimes.”

“You're too good for me.”

“No I'm not. Let's just go to sleep, alright? We can go out for breakfast tomorrow, then come home and be lazy. We can worry about everything on Monday.”

He just nods against your shoulder before adjusting his position to something more comfortable.

 

Another week later and the two of you get to meet _her._ It's kind of… weird. The whole situation feels surreal, and you feel kind of like you're not there. You're on autopilot, as to not break down from the stress. The girl—Olivia—she's almost five, and she's such a sweet little thing. She looks ridiculously similar to Dallon, and it throws you off a little tiny bit. Honestly, throughout the whole day, Dallon looks as if he's about to faint.

At some point, she asks you if she's going to have to call you dad, and you respond with, “Nah. You can call me whatever you want.” (She tells you that she's going to call you Bren. It's adorable, and you try not to aww. You do smile, though, and you catch Dallon giving you one of his 'wow, okay, I really love this guy' looks.)

 

She dies a few days after Dallon's birthday.

(By that point, Olivia has been living with the two of you for a little over a month.)

Her health had taken a sharp turn downwards, and she ends up in the hospital. The actual moment of her death is just… it's… it's kind of heartbreaking, actually. Dallon had been on the bed with her, holding her kind of how he holds you sometimes, and Olivia had been laying in front of her mother, dead asleep. You'd been sitting in a chair, with your head in your arms on the bed.

She didn't die violently or anything. For the last few days, she was mostly just asleep, and then the sleep just… it quit being temporary. (Yes, you swiped that quote from Orange Is The New Black.) The only noise in the room had been the steady beeping of the heart monitor, and when it flat lined, you'd slowly start stirring, as did Dallon.

He panics, and starts muttering, “No, no, no, no, no,” over and over, Olivia cries, obviously, and you try to jump into action as fast but as gentle as you can. You peel Olivia from the bed, and you help Dallon stand up. The next few hours go by in a blur, and when the three of you go home that night, it's just—no one says anything.

There's not a whole lot to say. A little girl just lost her mother, and is now stuck with two men she barely knows as parents, Dallon just lost someone very important in his life, and you feel helpless. There's really, _really_ not a whole lot to say. The three of you pile into yours and Dallon's bed that night. No one wants to be alone. Death is weird to deal with.

 

Her funeral goes by in a blur as well. Olivia grips yours and Dallon's hands like lifelines, and you're surprised you don't lose a few fingers from lack of circulation. She asks something along the lines of, “Why are they burying Mommy?” as she looks up at Dallon with a sad expression on her face, and he just—he starts crying on the spot and your heart breaks.

 

Your mother invites herself to visit over the summer. Of course, you're glad to have her, so you don't protest. Both you and her flip Dallon shit when he calls her 'mom' after hugging her at the airport. He glares. She absolutely _adores_ Olivia as well, and you're definitely glad about that.

A few weeks into her visit, the two of you stay up a little late, sharing a few alcoholic beverages, and having a deep conversation, on the couch, in the living room. “How have you been holding up?”

You shrug, because, “I could be better, but I could be worse. I haven't had the time to have a breakdown.”

She nods, and a few minutes later, she's saying, “I'm proud of you.”

“Why?”

“I just am. You've grown up to be a fine young man. Within the past few weeks I've watched you be a father to that child, and let me tell you, you're already one helluva better father than your own ever was.”

You snort. “Yeah. I'm just—I didn't pick up any parenting tips from Dad, that's for sure. I think the last time I talked to him was when the two of you visited that one Christmas.”

“I haven't talked to him since our divorce was finalized.”

“He's such an asshole.” You take a pretty decent swig of your drink. “I'm still pissed off that he kicked me out. It's been about eight years, but that was still a shitty fucking thing for him to do.”

“I should've said something to him. I'm sorry that I didn't stand up to him, honey.”

You shake your head. “It's in the past.”

The two of you go back and forth for a little bit, before the topic of the marriage comes up. “Have you decided if you're going to take his last name yet?”

“Uh, we're uh—we're kind of already legally married. Mostly because of the custody stuff. I did the thing with the hyphen. Like, Urie-Weekes.” You mumble out the last part a little bit, and you avoid eye contact. “We were planning on having a ceremony this summer, but then the whole thing with his ex-wife happened, so that's being postponed for at least another few years.”

She raises her eyebrows. “Good to know.”

 

You have to threaten to withhold sex for another six months before you get Dallon to agree to go to grief counseling. He's been smoking like a forest fire and drinking like a fish, and you want him to do something before it gets _too_ unhealthy. You'd already been taking Olivia for a month or two at that point, and you'd started seeing a therapist again, but mostly for a different reason. (You need to get your shit together. You're trying to recover from your eating disorder, and you're trying to work on improving your mental health because you need to be there for the child and for Dallon.)

You start taking on more acting jobs, mostly in New York. You like modeling, but recovering from an eating disorder means being unable to maintain that certain body type, and Tyler agreed that acting was probably the better choice to go with in the long run. Pete and Patrick babysit Olivia when they can, whenever you're out of town. Josh does sometimes too, and you think Tyler would, but he travels with you a lot, so it's a bit difficult for him to babysit while he's outside of New York.

 

Come September, you learn that you still hate parent-teacher conferences. Dallon conveniently has to be in London for a business thing that week, which leaves you to go to the PTC. You probably would've gone with Dallon in the first place, had he been in New York, but it's kind of weird going alone.

As soon as you lay eyes on her teacher, you know you don't like her. She's old and crotchety looking. You don't like old and crotchety. She recognizes you too, apparently. You know the look on her face. She gives you a run down of Olivia's grades, and how she's been doing in class. “I just feel as if she isn't asserting herself.” _Bullshit._ You watch her bust her ass on her minimal homework, and you even help her with it. “Some of her assignments just aren't getting done properly, not to mention homework.” Okay, you resent that. You definitely do.

“I try to help her with homework when I can. Some of the assignments—they're not the easiest. You can't expect a kid to be perfect.” You cross your arms.

“She seems… distracted, sometimes, too.” She asks how your household is.

“Her mother passed away in May, and I'll be the first to admit the whole situation hasn't been the easiest. My husband and I are trying to provide a stable home, but my work schedule and his work schedule definitely doesn't make it easy. We're really trying though.”

She gives you a once-over and a distasteful look the second you say 'husband.'

You go back and forth with the teacher for another fifteen minutes before you're allowed to leave.

 

On your way out of the school, you carry her on your hip, similar to how you used to carry Pete's kid before he'd hit a growth spurt around the time he turned nine. She's sleepy, and she has her head on your shoulder. She quietly asks if the two of you could _possibly_ get ice cream, and you think she's learning what kind of looks can make either you or Dallon cave instantly, because the second you make eye contact, you find yourself caving, and saying, “Yeah.”

 

The two of you sit in the car in the parking lot of a Dairy Queen, eating ice cream, and she's asking you questions. “How did you and Dad meet?”

You think back to when he'd walked into that damn Starbucks. “I used to work at a Starbucks, and he came in for coffee one morning because he spilled his own in his car. I wrote my phone number down on his cup, and it kind of just snowballed from there.”

“What does 'snowballed' mean?”

Immediately, your mind goes to the Urban Dictionary definition, but you answer with what you _actually_ meant. “You know how when you roll a snowball and it gets bigger? It's like that. It's an expression.”

She just nods and goes back to eating her ice cream in peace.


	28. Chapter 28

The first Thanksgiving after the death is better than expected. The three of you had initially planned to just stay home and share a pizza, but Tyler had invited you over to his own home to feast upon some of the finest Lebanese and Japanese delicacies. He and Josh busted their asses on the meal, so you honestly couldn't bring yourself to say 'no.'

Pete and Patrick are there with their own kid, and everyone just—everyone has a good time. Josh does a bunch of tricks with his food to try and impress Pete's kid and Olivia. Pete's kid, given that he's eleven, isn't really that phased, but Olivia is absolutely in _awe._ It's kind of funny. She does say, “Ew,” when Josh snorts a noodle through his nose and pulls it out through his mouth. Actually, everyone says 'ew' at that. Tyler threatens to kick Josh out if he does it again.

\---

You, Dallon, and the kid travel to Las Vegas for Christmas, as per your mother's request. Dallon just absolutely _spoils_ everyone. It's ridiculous. You figure he had to have spent at least twenty thousand dollars on physical gifts, and then some. You, personally, get a few ugly sweaters, some ring he found at a pawn shop that he thought would look cool on you, some insanely and ridiculously expensive leather jacket, and you get _another_ check for a million dollars. You don't argue with him as much this time.

Olivia gets a doll that she'd been hounding either of you about, along with a slew of other toys, clothes, and a few other gifts either of you thought she'd like. Dallon buys your mother a _beautiful_ necklace, and gives her a $5,000 gift card for Dior.

Spencer and his wife come over for New Years. You bullshit with the aforementioned man most of the evening, and either of you catch each other up on what'd been going on in each others lives. His wife is, apparently, pregnant, and you're excited for him. You toootally don't give him a huge hug when he tells you.

 

After everyone's cleared out of the house on New Years, Dallon helps you blow up an air mattress for the two of you to share in the living room. “I'm still in love with you,” He whispers into your ear just as you're getting ready to fall asleep.

“I'm still in love with you too. I don't think you know how happy it makes me that I'm able to call you my husband.” His arms tighten in their grip around you.

“I'm so proud of you sometimes. I really am.” _Alright, Mom 2.0._

“Why?”

“Because. I've watched grow from some dweeby, scrawny little twenty year old into who you are now. I've seen you at your worst, and I've watched you overcome a lot of things. You're a wonderful father; caring and kind. With almost no hesitation you agreed to just—to share a _life_ with me. I mean, that last part specifically doesn't make me feel _proud,_ but it makes me feel something.” You grin, widely.

“It doesn't take a lot to do the right thing. I didn't have to think before any of this happened.”

You feel him nod.

\---

You think your first time of actually feeling like a parent happens later in January. Of course, at that point, Olivia is calling you the Arabic word for dad, thanks to Tyler. You don't mind it. Anyways—the point is—she gets sick with a cold, and you stay home to take care of her. She's miserable, and you feel so bad. Like, ridiculously bad.

You never thought you'd be a pushover parent, but puppy-dog eyed looks and sick children are what make you break. She's a little whiny and cranky the whole day, and you're there to obey every last wish she has, whether it be for water, or for a hug.

In the afternoon, you're on the couch, with the aforementioned child tucked into your side. You think she's sleeping for a good while, but you learn that she's not when she says, “I miss my mom.”

You can only crack a small, sad grin. “I know you do, sweetheart, I know.”

One thing about being sick is that children get weepy, so you end up with a crying five year old in your arms. You don't try and make her stop crying, but rather you let her get it out of her system. You remembered when you were little, your parents would, sometimes, yell and scream at you to stop crying whenever you were upset, and at those times, what you needed most was someone to just _hug_ you, and to let you cry until you were done.

Honestly, the most you've done as far as yelling goes with this kid is raising your voice a tiny little bit if she's being stubborn in the mornings. Even then, though, it's only if _you're_ super frustrated, which, surprisingly, isn't that common. You've grown patient. A lot of things changed super fast, and it was—it _is_ weird.

For the most part, you're one for being cool, calm, and collected, and you're one for politely asking for things, or asking what's wrong, rather than yelling about something needing to be done.

Another thing you find funny is that _Dallon_ is more of a pushover than you are. You'd expected him to be the strict one out of the two of you, but, surprisingly, you find that you have to be the one who has to put his foot down and say 'no' sometimes. Telling a child 'no' is a lot more difficult than you'd think.

\---

Late in February, Tyler and Josh come over in the morning, and Dallon's sick, and staying home from work. Tyler's there to talk to you about a few work things, which honestly shouldn't even need to be said at this point. Everyone knows Tyler comes over to the house to talk to you about work things. You don't know why the metaphorical seventeen year old feels the need to repeat that, because, like, dude, we get it. _Metaphorical Seventeen Year_ _O_ _ld, whoever the fuck you are, we know. Tyler likes to pedal my ass for acting jobs. It's alright. You don't need to talk about it._

“I have an _offer_ that I really, really think you should take, but I don't know if you're prepared, to, uh, get ready for that role.” Tyler shifts awkwardly, and crosses his fingers while giving you a weird look.

“What would I have to do?”

“… Lose weight.”

In unison, both you and Dallon say, “No.” (Dallon's on the other end of the dining table trying to get down a bowl of soup and a glass of water.) You hear Josh click his tongue from his spot across from Dallon.

“I've been trying really hard to recover from my eating disorder for nearly a year, Tyler. We all know I'd just relapse if I were to lose weight again, so, no. I'm not letting that all go to waste.”

“Alright, well, that's off the table I guess.”

Short story even shorter, you end up in Los Angeles for a different thing.

\---

Your phone rings around eight in the evening your first night in LA. It's Dallon, and you figure he wants to bullshit before he goes to bed, or something along the lines of that, so you answer with, “Hey, gorgeous.” You're in a mood. A corny, cheese ball kind of mood.

He makes a gagging noise. “Hi. Would it be too much to ask if you could get on Skype right now? _Someone_ refuses to sleep until she talks to you.” You hear a childish noise of protest in the background, and you grin almost dumbly.

“It's definitely not too much. Give me a few minutes to get my laptop out, alright?”

“Yeah, sure.” The phone call ends after that.

As soon as Skype opens on your laptop, you have a notification of an incoming video call, so you answer, obviously. You end up talking about your day, and explaining why you have to be on Los Angeles before Olivia actually falls asleep. You're a little jealous of how easily she was able to fall asleep. Your live would be a helluva lot more different if you could sleep so easily.

Dallon quietly leaves her room, then goes to the bedroom you share with him, most likely to talk to you himself before he goes to bed. “How was your day?” You ask.

“It was there. Josh came over around six to baby sit for a few hours before the little one had to go to school, and he brought her home in the afternoon, and hung around until _I_ got home. Man, Josh is like, super nice. Why are all your friends so nice?”

You shrug. “No idea. Josh in particular is just a nice guy all around. Everyone knows that, though.”

He nods. “Yeah. Hey, this might be a little too convenient, but I have a business thing in Los Angeles that I need to go to in a few weeks. What would you think about hanging out for a few days while I'm doing that? And what would you also think about maybe accompanying me to a business dinner? Along with our child?” He gives you an awkward grin, somehow acting as if you'd say 'no.'

“I'm definitely down for it.”

He flashes you an award winning grin, and you immediately have to just smile in return. He's way too fucking gorgeous.

\---

The 'dinner' ends up being more like a party. Not a college party kind of party, but everyone's up and walking around, schmoozing, and kissing each others ass, as is Dallon. You take to sitting near the corner of the room, as usual, with Olivia, chatting about whatever it is children like to talk about. Tyler's apparently been teaching her more words in Arabic, and you think Josh might be trying to teach her a few Japanese words, because she says a few things that you don't understand, but vaguely recognize from the two other aforementioned men.

She, again, calls you what you're pretty sure the Arabic word for dad is (it sounds kind of like 'Abba', but you're not sure on the spelling), then asks, “What's Dad doing?”

You scan the room, looking for Dallon, and when your eyes land on him, he's looking right at you, and you mouth, “What?” at him. His eyebrows go up for a split second before he looks away, and you roll your eyes. The guy he's talking to looks important, so you answer her with, “I think he's trying to be friends with that guy. I don't really get how the whole businessman thing works, but having friends in the right places is useful in this world.”

She nods, and gets a look that's way too serious for a five year old as she watches Dallon. Another while later, you're staring off into space due to the lack of stimuli and having ADHD, when a small hand tugs on the sleeve of your blazer. “I'm hungry.”

“Again?” You raise your eyebrows. You're teasing her. She didn't really even eat too much when everyone else had actually been eating.

She nods, and asks about dessert. You're about to say, “No,” and suggest getting some fruit from the salad bar, but she looks _stressed_ and a little upset, so you cave, _as usual._ “What d'ya want?”

She thinks for a minute. “Chocolate ice cream.”

“I'm sure I can make that happen.” She grins, and reaches over to hug you as best as she can with her short child arms. Children are so small. It's weird. You manage to get Dallon's attention, so you wave him over. He goes to sit down next to you, but you stop him. “Hey, no, you're not sitting down.”

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me.” You pull him down for a kiss that lasts maybe a second too long, and you keep him bent down so you can politely and quietly ask, “Do you think you could get a few things for me?”

He leans back a little bit to make eye contact as he asks you what you need.

“I want another strawberry daiquiri, and I'd also really appreciate it if you could look into getting some chocolate ice cream while you're getting me another drink?” You try to give him a cute look. “Please?” You don't know why you bother with the cute look, because he basically answers to your beck and call.

He pecks you on the lips and nods in response to your request.

After you've finished your second daiquiri of the night, and after Olivia is done with her small bowl of ice cream, she's feeling a little restless, so you decide to walk around the room with her to look at a few things, namely some paintings. You also start to wonder why, even after almost twenty six years of being alive, you're a magnet for bullshit.

You're standing within earshot of Dallon, and you hear someone ask, “Is he your nanny or something?” Their tone is snide and distasteful. You don't think Olivia hears, mostly since she's asking you a question about paintings, and since you're answering accordingly.

You take a minute to look over your shoulder at Dallon, just as _he's_ saying, “Uh, no, actually. He's my husband, and that's our daughter.” You hold a hand up a little bit to wave, with a small awkward grin, and Dallon returns the gesture. The guy he's talking to just looks a bit miffed, if anything.

 

Josh and Tyler have a house in Los Angeles, and, thankfully, they're kind enough to let you stay there while you're in Los Angeles so long as you keep the place clean and don't rip them off. (Not that you'd have a reason to rip them off. You make more money than either of them do, and Dallon probably has a few hundred million dollars in his bank account at any given moment.)

After the 'dinner,' the three of you hang out in the guest room. Olivia is a little wired and can't sleep, and Dallon's on his laptop going over some paperwork while you're keeping the child entertained. Eventually, she makes a comment about wanting to try make up, and you raise your eyebrows a tiny little bit. “I have make up with me.”

She practically gets stars in her eyes, and you catch Dallon giving you a warning look. “Don't give me that look, Dallon. I'll do your make up too.”

“No, you will not.”

You scoff. “You want to try me? _Pas de sexe pendant six mois._ ” _**(No sex for six months.)**_

 _“_ _Sérieusement? Vous ne pouvez pas me garder en danger en refusant le sexe.”_ _ **(Seriously? You can't keep threatening me by withholding sex.)**_

“ _Oui je peux, et je le ferai. Soit tu me laisses faire mettre sur vous, ou votre bite va nulle part près de mon cul pour les six prochains mois.”_ _ **(Yes I can, and I will. Either you let me put make up on you, or your dick goes nowhere near my ass for the next six months.)**_

 ****He squints at you, and you smirk in triumph. You do Dallon's make up first, since you know he's not going to mess with it. He leans back against the headboard, and you sit on his lap while doing his make up. He makes a bunch of empty threats in French throughout the whole process as well. (Mostly he just asks why it never works when _he_ threatens to withhold sex, and you tell him it's because, sadly, he's whipped.)

You decide to put a full face on _yourself_ next, since you have a selfie idea, _then_ you get started with Olivia. “What colors are you wanting?” You'd gone with dark, cool colors for Dallon, and warm colors for yourself.

“Pink.” She's way too serious about this. Her face is just—it's stony, cold, and, oh god, she inherited Dallon's bitch face. That's exactly it.

Once you're done with _her_ make up, the three of you crowd together at the head of the bed, and you take a few pictures. Dallon keeps a straight face in all of them, you smile, and Olivia pulls a few funny faces. You post two of them on Twitter, with the following caption: _when the whole fam looks fly as fuck (and when your husband cant smile to save his life.)_

You haven't posted anything on Twitter since October, and before that it'd been February of last year, so your mentions are filled with people asking you when the hell you got married and why the fuck you have a child suddenly. Honestly, you would've answered some of them, but Dallon was pestering you about taking the make up off of his face, and you also kind of had to crack down and make _someone_ go to bed as to not screw up her sleep schedule. Five year olds don't need messed up sleep schedules.


	29. Chapter 29

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I HIGH KEY CANT READ THE ENDING TO THIS FIC BECAUSE I GET CHOKED UP

March goes by smoothly, as does your birthday, and most of April, up until the twentieth. It's not as if on the twentieth, suddenly everything was shitty, but within the Urie-Weekes household, the mood shifts a little bit, and it's not a good shift. Dallon doesn't have a great birthday, especially considering the sixth of May is the one year mark. For the most part, the three of you kind of just stay home, not really saying anything, and watching things on TV in, well, silence.

Dallon leaves the house around seven, saying he needs 'fresh air' or some other bullshit. You can tell he's fibbing a little bit by the tone he's using. You've been with the guy for almost six years. You know him. You shoo Olivia off to bed around ten, and you try calling Dallon probably five hundred times, but he doesn't pick up his fucking phone, and, man, look, you're worried. It's not as if you can't deal with being away from him, because, well, you've probably been separated from him for at least a third of your relationship with him as far as traveling goes, but _usually_ if he's out past nine, he'll at least bother to call and tell you where he's at so that you don't have a heart attack over him. (You're pretty sure a lot of your concern is just an anxiety thing, but a good part of it is also because he just—he's been off for the past few weeks.)

He eventually comes stumbling back into the house around midnight, and you kind of have to catch him as he comes tumbling down. He's hammered. He smells like cigarettes, pot smoke, and booze, so you figure he'd either gone to a bar, or he'd went somewhere to get stoned. A bar seems more logical to you, though.

You almost crumble under his weight because, well, you're small. You weigh, like, around one hundred and ten pounds, and you don't have a lot of muscle mass. Now, imagine _that_ trying to hold up the dead weight of a 6'4” thirty three year old who has at least eighty pounds on you easy. It takes everything in you to get Dallon up the stairs and into the master bathroom. He'd muttered something about feeling sick, so you'd said, “Hold your stomach until I get you upstairs, _at least.”_

He manages, thankfully. You sit next to him on the floor, rubbing his back, while he's, well, y'know, throwing up. He looks pathetic. You'll never tell him that, of course, but he smells like a bar, he's crying probably the ugliest you've seen him (still not as ugly as you), and he's throwing up in the process of it, clinging to the toilet bowl for dear life. (He dry heaves for a while as well.)

After he's done, you flush the toilet, and grab a wad of toilet paper to wipe his mouth off with. You thank god you're not a very squeamish person as you do so. You help him stand up, and you lead him out of the bathroom and back into the bedroom so you can help him get changed. Once he's actually in pajamas, you get him to get into the bed, and you crawl in behind him. He's still crying, and you're running your fingers through his hair, trying to get him to relax. He apologizes numerous times for being so upset, but you shush him, because you understand. You don't quite get it, but you understand.

You knew full well that he still cared a great deal about his ex-wife, and you say, “Dallon, I'm not blaming you for being upset. This whole situation in general just sucks, and I'd honestly be surprised if you _weren't_ upset. If you gotta cry, then cry. I've got you, man.”

 

The day after Mother's Day the following week is also not a great day. You get to sleep until elevenish, which is when your phone starts ringing with the number from the elementary school Olivia goes to. The gist of the situation is that her class had been making cards for Mother's Day, and that, for obvious reasons, she'd started crying, so you were asked to take her home. Which, obviously, you agreed to do without hesitation.

She has a surprisingly good concept of death, and you feel a little bad. You, yourself, didn't have a very good concept on how death worked up until you were eleven or so. You're glad you managed to maintain your innocence for at least that long. You hate it when you see children who have to grow up way too soon. It's sad.

 

Things go on almost normally for the next year. You work, Dallon works, both of you try to make ends meet as far as caring for a child goes, the three of you spend time with your friends, and your mother. It's just… nice. You guess. Emotionally, things are tough once in a while, but that's alright. Shit happens, and life goes on.

Tyler and Josh finally get married near the end of the year, and you almost cry in fucking relief. You spent probably three years watching them dick around and put off _actually_ getting married, so, _you know._

You start making more slow and torturous progress on recovering from your eating disorder, and you're pretty sure everyone is proud of you. Dallon's just happy to see that you're healthy, and he's totally there on days when you're feeling like shit. Also, having a child kind of boosts your mood in general for some reason, and helps with your mental health. You're not too sure on why, but it does. Robyn tells you that it's a normal thing. Also, yes, you're seeing Robyn again. She's really happy to see you once you show up for an appointment almost out of nowhere.

 

When you turn twenty eight, Dallon decides to _propose_ again, and you bring up the fact that the two of you are already married. He tells you to just go along with it, and a few months later, the two of you have a commitment ceremony.

You definitely try not to cry throughout the whole thing, but when either of you get to the part with the vows, you start to fail in your mission to not cry. Once the kissing part happens, well, the last time you heard a crowd shout and cheer that loud you were at a concert for some shitty pop punk band in 2011. The rest of the night goes amazing, and the two of you spend a few weeks in Italy for a _honeymoon._

 

You grow up, you grow older, as does Dallon. If you do say so yourself, you think that the two of you do a damn good job at raising Olivia to be a decent human being. It's definitely not easy raising a kid, but either of you manage. She graduates at the top of her damn class in high school, and gets scholarships for numerous ivy leagues thrown her way. (You make a million dollar bet with Dallon over whether or not she's going to choose an ivy league school, or if she's going to choose an art school. Needless to say, you end up with an extra million in your personal bank account.)

Anyways, you think that the most important thing you've learned over the course of your _life,_ basically, is that it just… goes on. It doesn't stop, it doesn't slow down, it just happens when it wants to. Bad things happen, good things happen, and that's kind of it, you know?

You met a guy, you fell in love, _he_ fell in love, you managed to move on, forgive, and fix your relationship with your mother, you watch your friends grow up and start having lives of their own, you build a career, and a life with someone, you become a _father_ , and, yeah, you think that you're pretty satisfied with your life, and how it went.


End file.
